Archive of Our Own ^beta

“A really well-made buttonhole is the only link between Art and Nature.” –Oscar Wilde

 *

Once the household staff had been dismissed for the evening, they gathered in the kitchen for their meal. Holmes preferred quiet, while Molly—the housekeeper, though Holmes thought she was far too young and unserious for the job—would usually let the maids get loud and giggly at the table. “Miss Hooper, if you please,” was all Holmes needed to say, though, and Molly would hush them.

When Watson arrived, he yanked his cap from his head as he crossed the threshold, and wiped his boots without being reminded.

“Mr Holmes?” he asked, in a voice quieter than Holmes expected from a man so solidly built. “I’m John Watson, the new gardener. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Watson extended his hand and Holmes shook it. “Welcome to Stonefield Hall, Watson. Please, have a seat, the girls are just serving.” Holmes gestured to an empty chair near the head of the table; Watson would sit at Holmes’ elbow.

Once the girls began passing the food, Holmes turned to Watson. “I understand you were at the front,” he said.

“Indeed. Gerry shot me once, but I survived it.” Watson indicated his shoulder. “Arm’s a bit weak but seems to get better every month. Doesn’t stop me working.”

“Good man,” Holmes intoned. “You’ll linger with me a bit after the meal so that we can go over your expectations? Then you can get straight to work in the morning.”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes.”

The maids were giggling.

“Miss Hooper, if you please.”

The meal finished, the girls cleaned the dishes, and Molly shooed the junior staff from the kitchen.

“I’m to my stitching, then, Mr Holmes, unless you need anything else?” She poured them tea.

“Thank you, Molly. We’ll be sure to rinse our cups.”

“Good night, then, Mr Holmes. Mr Watson.”

Holmes hummed, tamping tobacco into his pipe. Watson rose from his chair as Molly left the room.

“What’s that?” Holmes asked, motioning toward Watson as he resumed his seat.

“A gentleman stands for a lady,” Watson said.

“You’re not a gentleman,” Holmes intoned, then puff-puff-puffed his pipe to get it burning.

“No, I suppose not. But there’s no harm in it. Miss Hooper seemed to appreciate it.”

“Oh?”

“She blushed a bit. Her neck.”

“You’ve no need to be looking at her neck. Despite Fred and Mary—they’re married; I can’t stop them, now--I don’t run that sort of household.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re not a married man, then, Watson?”

“No. I was, but she died, my Jane. Coughed herself to death during the war.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was a fine woman. I’m afraid I didn’t love her as well as she deserved. I was fond of her but I don’t reckon it’s in my nature to be a husband.”

“Mm. Children?”

“No. One little fella back in ’16, but he only stayed a week. For the best, though, since his mother didn’t make it. I’m even less a natural father than a natural husband.” Watson tipped his teacup, lifted the saucer full of tea to his lips and sipped. Holmes looked disapproving but said nothing. “What about yourself, Mr Holmes? Are you married?”

Holmes snorted a bitter laugh. “As you say, it’s not in my nature. My uncle and grandfather were butlers at Stonefield before me. I consider myself married to my work.”

“That’s admirable, sir: a good work ethic,” Watson said. His face was so guileless, so open—not at all what Holmes would expect from a man who’d been to war. Watson added, “I imagine it could make for a bit of a lonely life, but.”

Holmes coughed out pipe smoke, just a single, quick cough. “Shall we go over what is required?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

Next morning, Watson brought a bouquet of wildflowers from the far edge of the west meadow to the kitchen door and left it with Molly Hooper. She arranged the flowers in a pitcher and set it in the middle of the long table. At midday Watson stopped for his lunch bucket and she offered him cucumber water, which he gratefully accepted; the heat was coming on early this year. When he settled under a crabapple tree to eat, he found she’d packed him an extra piece of cake.

*

“I’ll be needing the coal and ice man to bring less coal, more ice, of course,” Molly reported. “Spring won’t last.” She left the kitchen door open so Holmes could still hear her, while she hung the morning’s damp kitchen towels on the laundry line. “I feel summer coming on, already. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes, seated at the kitchen table with his small ledger book in front of him, hummed absently. Miss Hooper did always talk much more than was necessary.

“Oh, and we’ll need more milk delivered if the Colonel will arrive Friday week. A fortnight, is it?” Molly asked, clearly not expecting a real reply from Holmes. “Then he’s back to town until mid-June.”

Holmes made notes in his book, snapped it shut, and rose to stand. “Thank you, Miss Hooper,” he said, “If needs change, you have until mid-afternoon to inform me; once the coal man’s come today we won’t see him again until—What on earth.”

Holmes frowned and moved to the doorway. Molly stood by with a handful of damp towels in one hand, shielding her eyes from the sun with the other as she looked out past the kitchen garden toward Madame’s roses. At the far edge of the rose garden was Watson, wheelbarrow full of clippings beside him. He wore a rather ludicrous, wide-brimmed straw hat against the sun. As Holmes watched, Watson performed a broad pantomime—hands one atop the other against the center of his chest, head thrown back, eyes closed as if in a swoon.

Holmes glanced toward Molly, who wore her tightest trying-not-to-smile smile. Her cheeks were flushed pink.

Watson reached into his wheelbarrow and fished out a crumpled, not-good-enough-for-the-house, white rose in full bloom. He extended it forward, his other hand stilling his racing heart. He bowed deeply at the waist.

“What in the world is he doing?” Holmes demanded.

Molly faced Holmes, her mouth still puckered in a barely-suppressed grin.

“I believe it’s called, ‘wooing,’ Mr Holmes.”

“He’s making a fool of himself.”

Watson’s hat had fallen onto the ground when he assumed his bow; he made a show of scrambling to fetch it, then replaced it with exaggerated seriousness, straightened his shirtfront, and marched off in the direction of the stables, pushing his wheelbarrow ahead of him.

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” Molly said, as she brushed past him back into the kitchen. “I think it’s charming, a man willing to make himself a bit of a fool just to coax a smile from the object of his affection.”

Holmes watched the back of Watson disappear over a knoll, his ridiculous hat the last thing to go. Holmes shut the kitchen door.

*

“You’ll stay and smoke, Watson?”

They were nearly finished supper; the girls were particularly boisterous and Holmes had said, “Miss Hooper, if you please,” rather more than he liked during the meal. He’d have to talk to her about it later, privately--getting a handle on the junior staff. Silly behavior at supper could end up spilling over into work hours, and if Miss Hooper gave an inch, they’d surely take a mile.

“I don’t smoke, sir,” Watson replied, “But if you’d like company, I’m happy to have a cuppa while you enjoy your pipe.”

“That’s fine,” Holmes agreed, “Fine.”

After supper, Molly poured them tea and Holmes went to work filling and tamping his pipe.

“Did you know, Mr Holmes? Our John Watson has a secret talent.” Molly was beaming, the colour high in her cheeks. Holmes wondered if she hadn’t bitten her lips; they were quite pink, as well.

Watson demurred. “Not a secret. Not even much of a talent, really.”

Molly reached into the pocket of her apron and passed Holmes a small scrap of paper. On it was sketched, in light pencil strokes, a portrait of her face: wispy curls of hair hanging loose from beneath her cap as it always did by the end of a work day. Her eyes in the portrait looked down and to the side, and her lips were set in their customary almost-smile.

“You don’t carry it about with you!” Watson protested.

“Of course I do,” Molly replied, “When I’m away from a mirror I can use it to check how I look.” She tucked a loose wave of hair behind one ear. “It’s a good likeness, I think.”

Holmes laid the drawing on the table and slid it back toward Molly.

“Very lifelike,” he verified.

“I should say I’m lifelike,” Molly teased. She tucked the sketch back in her pocket. It seemed that a look passed between her and Watson. “Have you got your little book, John? You should show it to Mr Holmes.”

John?

“I’m to my mending,” Molly said. “Good night, sir. Good night, Mr Watson.”

She’d remembered herself.

“What’s this, now, Watson, you’ve a book to show me?”

Watson looked embarrassed, though he was smiling, and reached into his hip pocket, from which he withdrew a small pad of thick, cream-coloured paper. He slid it across the table to Holmes.

“It’s my pastime, just a lark,” he said. “Always had a knack for it, since I was a little sprout. It used to get me a smack on the knuckles at school when I should have been doing my letters and all I had to show at the end of a lesson was a scribble of the back of the boy in front of me’s head.”

Holmes paged through the book with narrowed eyes, pipe clenched in his teeth, silvery smoke wafting around his face.

There were small portraits of nearly all the staff: little Margaret the chambermaid, with her crooked teeth showing in a smile; two of the footmen, one winking, one perhaps asleep; the driver, in profile, wearing his cap and with his collar done up just so. Then a sketch of Stonefield Hall as seen from the east meadow, where Watson ate his lunch under a tree nearly every day. Finally, an elegant pair of long-fingered hands Holmes would have denied were his own but for a telltale scar on the left ring finger; and on the facing page, the lower part of his own face—chin and jaw, full bottom lip jutted out just a bit to support the stem of his pipe, with his hand upon it as if he were about to put it aside.

Holmes closed the book and passed it back to Watson. “You have an eye for it,” he allowed. “It’s certainly not a trick I ever learned.” He seemed to change the subject. “You went to school, then.”

“A bit,” Watson replied, fussing with the book, turning it over in his hands. “Not much.”

Holmes hummed. “Probably enough, given your current occupation.”

“Yes, sir,” Watson agreed. He looked down into his teacup, now nearly empty. “Probably enough.”

They were quiet a moment. Watson finished the last swallow of tea in his cup.

“I wonder if the hothouse is producing anything of worth yet?” Holmes’ pipe had gone out and he went into his pocket for matches, then seemed to think better of it and simply laid the pipe on the table.

“Not yet, Mr Holmes, though I expect lettuces to be ready within a fortnight.”

“The cook will be pleased.”

“I hope so.” Watson clasped his book in both hands. “Morning comes early,” he offered, pushing back his chair, “I’m to my bed. Good night, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes, good night, Watson.”

*

“For the love of—“ Holmes muttered roughly, “Now what is he up to?” He stepped out from the kitchen onto the stone walkway. Molly and Margaret, a young chambermaid, were hanging laundry; it was a Monday afternoon.

Watson was far off, outside the hothouse. He was carrying something—an armload of dried twigs or brush he’d cut from elsewhere on the property. Momentarily, he turned his back on Holmes, Molly, and Margaret, then turned around and extended his arm to point their attention not toward a random bundle of twigs, but a careful arrangement in the shape of a valentine-heart, which he had propped up on the hothouse window.

“Oh, Miss Hooper, look a’ tha’!” Margaret exclaimed, and crushed her fists together under her chin.

“Margaret, go and make yourself useful inside,” Holmes scolded, and Margaret scurried away without another word.

Watson dropped to his knees and made a pleading gesture. Molly let go a brief laugh, struggled to subdue herself.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Holmes thundered. He took two firm strides in Watson’s direction but heard several bells go simultaneously in the kitchen and  retreated back inside.

Molly waved at Watson; he doffed his hat to her.

*

A week later, more flowers for the table, more extra sweets in Watson’s lunch bucket, and Holmes stood and cleared his throat just once, which quieted the whole staff instantly.

“I want to remind all of you that with the obvious exception of Fred and Mary, fraternization among the staff is strictly forbidden. Margaret, what does ‘fraternization’ mean?”

Timid Margaret, who Watson figured couldn’t have been more than thirteen, sprang to her feet as if she were in school and squeaked out, “Boys and girls chatting together and tha’, Mr Holmes.” She sat so hard in her chair it seemed sure she must have bruised herself.

“Yes, thank you, Margaret. It is the ‘and that’ which concerns me.” He looked pointedly at Molly, but seemed to purposely avoid looking toward Watson. “I assume I am understood.”

Holmes resumed his seat, Molly said a quick blessing, and the meal began. Once the table became lively with chatter, Watson turned to Holmes and said, “You’ve nothing to worry about, Mr Holmes, as regards Miss Hooper and myself.”

Holmes made a grim humming sound.

Watson leaned as close as he dared. “I’m sure you remember I said it’s not in my nature to be a husband.” Watson’s knee brushed Holmes’ leg beneath the table.

 “I would advise,” Holmes said to a forkful of stew meat, under his breath, “That you make your intentions clear to Miss Hooper; she is too good a woman to be allowed a misapprehension.”

Watson sat back in his chair a bit. “Yes, sir. I agree.”

*

Holmes had a tiny office off the side of the wine cellar, and he summoned Watson there late the next morning.

“I wanted to be sure you had spoken to Miss Hooper,” he said.

Watson nodded again. “I daresay she understood, already, what my intentions were.”

“Oh?” Holmes set down his pen and looked questioningly at Watson.

“The flowers on the kitchen table.”

Holmes looked puzzled. Watson took a step forward. “I thought you might have. . .” He started. “Perhaps I wasn’t obvious enough. I tried to be. Because if I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that life is short and there isn’t time to waste.” Watson cleared his throat nervously. “Those flowers were never for Molly.” Drawing a yellow rosebud carefully from the pocket of his jacket, Watson gently coaxed the petals open with the tips of his fingers. He stepped around Holmes’ desk to stand beside his chair.

“They were always for you.” Watson tucked the short stem of the rose into Holmes’ buttonhole, let his hand come to rest on Holmes’ lapel, against his chest. Holmes seemed frozen in place for a long moment. He stared at Watson’s hand resting there over his heart, then shifted his gaze up to Watson’s face, which was open, expectant, utterly guileless. At last, Holmes covered Waston’s hand with his own, and his eyes fell closed.

 “You’re trembling,” Watson near-whispered. “It’s lovely. You’re lovely.”

Holmes closed his hand tighter around Watson’s, to stop it shaking. His heart was racing; Watson could feel the blood pulsing in the pad of his thumb. Holmes swallowed hard. Watson’s fingers slid beneath his lapel, holding on just below the rosebud buttonhole.

“The flowers,” he began, “and staying after supper to pass time with you. All my nonsense in the garden, at the hothouse. . .I thought you knew. That I had. . .” Watson cleared his throat. “—That I have—intentions. Toward you. I have a great affection for you.” Watson stroked his thumb across the fabric of Holmes’ lapel. “Say something, please,” Watson murmured, his wide eyes searching Holmes’ face. “Mr Holmes.”

After a moment’s pause, a hushed reply. “You may call me just, ‘Holmes.’ When we’re alone.”

Watson traced the edge of Holmes’ lapel, the seam at his shoulder, petting him, with just the tips of his fingers.

“No,” Watson said plainly. “That’s what they call you.” He cut a glance toward the ceiling, indicating the family upstairs. “You’re not my servant. You’re the treasure I outlived a wife and survived a war to find.”

Holmes looked down at his hands, now folded on top of the ledger book on his desk.

“So, I will call you Mr Holmes,” Watson said tenderly, “But when others are nearby, and you hear me saying, ‘yes, Mr Holmes,’ you should know what I’m really saying is yes, precious one. .. yes, you beauty. . .yes--”

“Sherlock,” Holmes said to his folded hands. “When we are alone—“ Holmes flushed hotly. “If we are alone. You may call me by my name. Which is Sherlock.”

Watson’s fingers traced the side of Holmes’ jaw. “When we are alone,” he said, in a thick, low voice, “I will call you a wonder.”

A bell went in the kitchen, and they both started. Watson let his hands fall by his sides, took a half-step back. Holmes rose to his feet.

“Back to work, then,” he said briskly, “Watson.” He brushed his palms down the front of his jacket.

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes’ neck flushed dark pink above his shirt collar. John smiled.

*

“That’s a lovely buttonhole, Holmes.”

“Thank you for saying so, Madame. It’s generous of you to notice.”

“What is it?”

“Just a thistle. Watson--the new gardener--fancies himself something of an artiste with the weeds he pulls.”

“Ah, now, Holmes. Beauty in unexpected places.”

“Indeed, Madame. Shall we get back to the plans for the dinner?”

“Holmes, it’s ever-so-kind of you to humour me that I’m the one in charge of things like this, but we both know it’s you that runs this house. It’s as if you know every single need before it’s even needed.”

“Thank you, Madame. It’s only a matter of being observant.”

“And, so?”

“Arrangements for the dinner are well in hand, Madame. You need only choose what colour flowers you’d like.”

“I should say I figured as much, Holmes. I’ll think it over, sleep on it, shall I? And then tomorrow, I’ll tell you.  .  .?“

“White, Madame.”

“Of course. White.”

*

It was nearing midday and Holmes was checking inventory in the cellar. He heard Molly out in the kitchen, bustling with the lunch buckets for the men working outdoors. For Watson. Holmes still hadn’t discerned why she still gave him extra sweets, now that she knew it was not her that Watson had been acting so foolish for.

“Afternoon, Molly.” Watson’s voice. “I hope you’re well.”

“And you, John. I’ve not quite finished packing up your dinner, though.” There was some rustling and moving about. “Mr Holmes is in the cellar; maybe you’d like to say hello.” There was something bright in her voice--like mischief--which Holmes found irritating, a little thrilling. He took down a bottle, Clicquot, ’02, and dusted it with his handkerchief.

And now here was Watson—John—with his shirtsleeves rolled up, standing quite close, mouth quirked up at the corners. Holmes returned the bottle to its place in the rack, began to fold up his handkerchief. John’s fingers were suddenly wrapped around one of his hands, which he laid in his own palm.

“How did you get your scar, there?” he asked, running the tip of his finger along the ragged white scar on Sherlock’s ring finger.

“I don’t remember. I was a child.”

“Playing rough and tumble, no doubt—climbing a tree. Or you caught it on a nail somewhere.” John slowly stroked one calloused fingertip along the length of each of Sherlock’s fingers, in turn, as he spoke.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed, his voice low. “I really don’t remember.”

John looked intently at Sherlock’s long fingers as he traced them. “It’s a beautiful hand.”

Sherlock only stared down at John’s face, his half-closed eyes. His eyelashes were short and sparse. Pale.

John still cradled Sherlock’s hand in his palm, and now he lifted it toward his face, and pressed his lips lightly against the scar between Sherlock’s knuckles. Then he slid the tip of the finger between his lips, and sucked gently at it. He closed his eyes, and the tip of his tongue circled Sherlock’s fingertip. Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was audible in the cool quiet of the cellar. John pressed his tongue against the pad of Sherlock’s fingertip and sucked it again, harder this time, then drew back, raking Sherlock’s sensitive fingertip along his bottom teeth as he went.

John raised his gaze, then, to find Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted to release gusty breaths. Still cradling Sherlock’s long, elegant hand in his palm as if it were a gift Sherlock had given him, John murmured, “That lip of yours.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened lazily and met John’s gaze.

“My lip?” All the usual edge had gone out of Sherlock’s voice; he sounded half-asleep.

John nodded, then tapped the center of his own bottom lip, indicating.

“Keeps me awake nights.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, just a bit.

“I wonder, though, does it ever smile?” John teased quietly. “I’d like to think it might smile when you think about me. But I’m sure what really gets it going is when the butcher weighs up the order wrong, in Stonefield’s favour.” Three of John’s work-roughened fingers stroked lazy circles on the back of Sherlock’s pale hand. Sherlock’s mouth bowed. “Ah, see that? There it goes, just imagining such a thing.”

Distantly—but not distantly enough—a bell went in the kitchen. After a moment, Molly’s voice calling, “Mr Holmes, you’re needed.”

Sherlock started to pull his hand away, but John trapped it gently in his own. He lowered his voice, looked hard into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’ve plans for that lip.”

Sherlock’s tongue-tip darted briefly between his lips to moisten them, coincidentally or calculatedly. In either event, the effect was stunning. John turned Sherlock’s hand over and pressed his lips against the center of his palm.

The bell again. Molly again. “Mr Holmes?”

John released Sherlock’s hand and tapped his lower lip once more. He gave Sherlock a knowing smile. He left the cellar, whistling a friendly tune as he went.

Holmes swallowed hard, tucked his handkerchief—now balled in his opposite fist—into his trousers pocket.

“Thank you, Molly. I’m on my way.”

*

The dining table was set for sixteen and the staff were dressed in crisp, freshly laundered uniforms. Holmes lifted each wine and water glass toward the sunlight, checking for spots. He realigned the flatware so that it was absolutely precise: each salad fork and fish knife and demitasse spoon equidistant from its neighbors. Place cards were etched in elegant calligraphy. Holmes ran a fingertip across the top edge of the mirror’s frame, the surface of the buffet, the window muntins. And everywhere one looked—of course—white flowers.

Holmes pulled the watch from his pocket to check the time, took a moment to gaze out the window toward the formal gardens. And there was Watson, raking a fresh layer of white gravel over the pathways between Madame’s roses.  His back was to the house, and he paused in his work just long enough to swipe the back of his forearm across his forehead. Holmes was mildly surprised to find himself longing for Watson to turn around.

*

Nearly midnight, and his coat was draped on the back of his chair, his cuffs unbuttoned and his shirtsleeves rolled up. The smoke from his pipe had never seemed so soothing. The maids had kept their silly mouths shut; each course had been served and cleared so seamlessly the staff were like shadows, like ghosts. The lady of the house had pulled Holmes aside later and thanked him, because her nerves had been frayed about opening Stonefield to such esteemed guests without her husband present to prop up the event. Holmes had done his job; he was pleased.

“I saw the light in the window. I hoped it was you I’d find.”

Watson, coming in from outside.

“You can’t see these windows from your cottage.” A blasé statement of fact, not an accusation.

Standing just inside the door, John looked caught out, a mischievous boy’s smile quirking up one side of his mouth. “I knew you’d have a late night. I’ve been walking out now and then from my room to check if you’d come down.”

Sherlock pushed out John’s chair with his foot, motioned for John to sit. “I’m afraid the tea’s gone cold by now,” he said. The pot and Sherlock’s cup and saucer sat on the table in front of him, along with a small box of matches and a tin of tobacco.

“I don’t mind,” John said, not moving to take the seat. He scanned the room. “Everyone’s gone to bed, I imagine.”

Sherlock hummed languidly, worried his pipe stem with his teeth. “Why haven’t you?” he asked.

“Wanted to look at you a bit,” John confessed instantly, unabashedly. “So my dreams will be pleasant.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “Do you always just say what comes into your head without weighing up the possible consequences first?”

John crossed to stand behind Sherlock’s chair, and lay his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, then stroked them down and out toward his upper arms, slowly, over and over, softening the tight muscles there.

“I say what I feel,” he said, “To you.”

“It can be dangerous for a man to speak to another man the way you do to me.”

“I’ve been in more dangerous situations.” John kept one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, while the other smoothed upward along the back of his neck, his fingertips raking up through Sherlock’s hair, separating the dark waves with his fingers. Sherlock’s head dropped forward slightly and his breathing changed, shallow and drawn out, as if he were nearing sleep. “And the only consequence I see is that you will know my intention,” John went on in a low voice. “Which is to worship you for as long as you’ll let me.” John’s hands followed each other up Sherlock’s neck, through his hair, back down to his collar, then up again, slowly. Sherlock hummed in a way John had not heard before. He leaned close to Sherlock’s ear and murmured, “I am your zealous devotee, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s head lolled slowly side to side on his forward-tilted neck, and he reached up to pull one of John’s hands around to his mouth. He pressed his lips against the heel of John’s hand, moved a bit and kissed again, then kissed again, and held him there. John’s breath ghosted against Sherlock’s ear as he whispered, “Invite me to your room.”

Sherlock drew in a long breath, held John’s hand against his chest.

“I’m afraid. . .” he muttered. “I cannot.”

“Don’t be afraid.” John nuzzled against Sherlock’s ear, his hair, his temple, kissing, grazing, warm exhalations and cool intakes of breath against Sherlock’s face. “Let me persuade you.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and he leaned into John’s kisses, the heat of his breath.

“It’s not,” Sherlock murmured, and he was turning his face toward John, his mouth seeking John’s mouth, “It’s not possible.”

John moved around in front of Sherlock, and leaned down toward him with his hands on the arms of Sherlock’s chair. “That lip,” he murmured. “That mouth of yours.”

Sherlock’s tongue slipped out to moisten his parted lips and he tilted his chin upward. John’s fingers and thumb trapped Sherlock’s jaw and steadied it; his other hand stroked slowly all along Sherlock’s bare forearm, and he breathed, “I want to kiss your beautiful lip. I’m dying to kiss it.”

Sherlock whispered, “Yes.”

“I want to bite it.”

“. . .mmmm. . .yes. . .”

John rested his lips against the outer corner of Sherlock’s mouth, still holding Sherlock’s chin fast. Sherlock pouted out his lower lip, offering it, trying vainly to meet John’s barely-open mouth, just a hair’s breadth away. John could taste Sherlock’s breath: black tea and leathery tobacco.

“I would kiss it for hours.”

Sherlock gasped, “Please.”

John pressed a light kiss on the opposite corner of Sherlock’s mouth, then the tip of his tongue dipped briefly into the divot at the very corner of his lips, and pushed down, forcing Sherlock’s lips further apart. Slowly--by infinitesimal fractions—John’s tongue slid across Sherlock’s lower lip toward the center. Almost immediately, though, he withdrew it.

Sherlock whined.

John was so near, his mouth brushed against Sherlock’s mouth, tickling, teasing, as he spoke. “I would kiss and kiss that lip of yours until the sun comes up. If only you would—please, Sherlock—“ The sound of his own name in John’s mouth nearly drove Sherlock mad. “Invite me to your room?”

A frustrated groan from low in Sherlock’s chest.

“I can’t. It’s—“

“You want to.”

“Yes.”

John implored, “Invite me to your room.”

Sherlock’s end-of-the-day stubble scraped the pads of John’s fingers and thumb, still gripping the lower part of Sherlock’s face.

“I’m afraid it’s just not possible,” Sherlock intoned, though he sounded less convinced than he had earlier. “I’m. . .It would be unseemly.”

John leaned back far enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes, and saw that the pupils were huge and black in the pale irises. As John watched, they began to close down against the light of the kitchen—Sherlock had had his eyes closed.

“If I kiss you now, I’ll never be able to sit in this room—at this table—“ John told him quietly, “free of the  distraction of it.” He made no effort to be discreet as the hand that had been stroking Sherlock’s forearm moved to his own trousers’ front and shifted his erection. Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s hand, and his adam’s apple jumped in his throat as he swallowed. “It’s all I would ever think about—kissing you--until I could kiss you again.”

All at once, John rose and moved toward the door.

“What about your room?” Sherlock asked, his voice a low rumble tinged with desperation.

“You know my room is shared,” John said. He pulled the door open.

Sherlock looked forlorn.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said.

John’s face was flushed. “I won’t stop asking,” he said simply. He tapped the center of his lower lip, then blew a kiss off his fingertip. “Good night, then, my own Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s body looked poised to spring from his chair, but he kept his seat, lay one hand on his pipe on the table. Quietly, he replied, “Good night, John.”

*

“Forget-me-nots, are they, Holmes?”

“I beg your pardon, Madame.”

“Your buttonhole. They’re forget-me-nots.”

“I’ll have to take you at your word, ma’am. It’s admittedly not my area of expertise.”

*

John’s hand rested on Sherlock’s thigh beneath the table.

 “Watson, I wonder if you’d join me for a glass of port when we’ve finished?” he asked. “I’ve a nice bottle in my room.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. It would be my pleasure.”

*

Molly tried not to look too knowing as Watson followed Holmes out of the kitchen. A narrow corridor, four steps up, Holmes’ key in the lock.

A double bed pushed into the corner as, sleeping alone, he only needed to get in and out one side of it. An armchair with a small side table (a half-empty bottle of port and a single drinking glass arranged upon it) and a reading lamp standing behind. A surprisingly ornate wooden wardrobe, probably handed down when the family had redecorated a bedroom upstairs. A washstand with a pitcher and bowl; Holmes’ razor and shaving brush, a bit of soap.  A small shelf on one wall holding a dozen or so books and a small painting of a woman with Holmes’ same pale eyes: his sister, or—more likely—his mother.

Neat as a pin. Not an item out of place. Not a mote of dust on any surface.

Holmes closed the door and turned the bolt. Neither of them seemed to know where to be. Holmes gestured toward the chair, the table beside it, and said, “There really is port. . .” He half-grinned, began to unbutton his coat. He removed the now fairly wilted buttonhole of blue forget-me-nots from the lapel and laid it on the bookshelf.

“Shall I pour us a bit? Or. I imagine you want to smoke? After supper.” Watson didn’t sit.

Holmes opened the wardrobe and hung the coat. He took out his watch, unfastened the chain, and placed it beside the spent buttonhole.

“No.”

“Oh. Very well. What, then?”

“First, I want to ask you a question,” Sherlock intoned. He stepped close to John, nearly chest to chest, but kept his hands clasped behind his back. “Why?”

“Not sure what you’re asking.”

“Why do you. . .” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “’Have an affection’ for me.”

“Because you are the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on,” John said. “I admire your seriousness. And you are so. . .solid.” John reached for the buttons on Sherlock"s waistcoat and began to slide them through the buttonholes as he spoke. “Your admirable work ethic impressed me from the start. And you are the most. . .steadfast man I have ever come across.”

“Hm--‘Steadfast.’” Sherlock mused.  “The staff have another term for it.”

John had undone all the buttons and so slid the waistcoat back from Sherlock’s shoulders, laid it carefully on the back of the armchair. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Stick up the arse,” Sherlock smiled. John laughed.

“Well, the staff are mostly children, and children are fools. That’s why we don’t make them prime minister,” John offered.

“No, only king,” Sherlock replied.

“Ah, see that? You’re a wit, too.”

“Yes, well don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not. Something of you I can keep all to myself.” John went next at the knot in Sherlock’s necktie, working it loose. “And what a face,” John added quietly, and the necktie slithered in his grip until it was free, and he laid it aside. “I haven’t been the same since the moment I first laid eyes on it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink and he shook his head a bit.

“I can’t be the first person to tell you that you have a beautiful face,” John said, tracing his fingertip up along Sherlock’s cheekbone toward his temple. “The most beautiful face.”

“I’m afraid others before you were far less eloquent, John. And less free with their endearments.”

“Idiots.”

Sherlock grinned and looked away. They were quiet a moment. John rested his hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck, caressed his cheek with his thumb.

“John.”

Sherlock rested the tip of one long, pale finger on the center of his bottom lip, and after a moment passed, locked with John’s gaze—which was some combination of awestruck and hungry—Sherlock closed his eyes.

John trapped Sherlock’s hand in his own and guided it to his mouth, circling Sherlock’s fingertip with his tongue--then again--then closing his lips around it, sucking. Sherlock stared at John’s mouth, at the tip of his own finger disappearing between John’s lips. John freed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock petted him a bit, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his shirt with the flat of his hand. John counterbalanced Sherlock’s chin  between curled index finger and thumb, and tilted Sherlock’s face down toward his own. John moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and—at last!--they alighted on Sherlock’s bottom lip, pressing, then pulling, then pressing again, opening a fraction more to surround Sherlock’s plump, pink lip more fully and persuade it ever further into John’s mouth. John broke contact briefly to let out a deep, ecstatic groan that rattled Sherlock’s bones. In response, Sherlock’s fist closed around a handful of John’s shirtfront, gripping, tugging, and his breathing became ragged.

Sherlock’s tongue swept slowly across John’s upper lip, and all at once both their mouths were open, tongues sliding urgently against each other, then retreating, and Sherlock’s arm went around John’s back, and John’s hands were grasping Sherlock’s sleeves, curling around the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer and closer and ever closer, laying claim to him by measures.

They came away heaving, and Sherlock let go a sigh, his cheek against John’s forehead. He moved to trace the curve of John’s ear with his nose, his hands rucking up the back of John’s shirt.

John cradled Sherlock’s face between his palms, guided him back to gaze again at the dramatic angles of his face. Sherlock’s lips were kiss-swollen, high pink. He stared a heavy-lidded daze into John’s eyes.

“I’m utterly overthrown,” John said, ruefully. “You know this, don’t you?” He dragged his thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip. “You know you’ve conquered me.” Sherlock looked practically delirious. “My god. You angel.” John’s mouth crashed against Sherlock’s again, thrusting his tongue in, guiding him backward toward the bed. John pressed Sherlock’s shoulders until he sat, then sank to his knees in front of him.

“John, don’t—“

“Shh.” John reached over to the washstand, tossed the bit of soap into the bowl, then splashed in some water from the pitcher and returned, setting the bowl down on the floor by Sherlock’s feet. “Now I’m your servant, Mr Holmes,” he said with a playful smile.

“What on earth are you—“

“Hush now.”

John went to work on the laces of Sherlock’s shoes, then slid them off. John’s hands slid up and over Sherlock’s ankles to unfasten his hose garters, and slid his socks down and off, then glided up along the muscles of Sherlock’s calves as he reached under his trouser leg for the hose garters and slid them down over Sherlock’s long, elegant feet.  Sherlock leaned back a bit, supporting himself with his palms on the bed behind him, and let his eyes close. Quickly, John opened the collar of his own shirt and raised it over his head and off. Winding his shirttail around two fingers, he dipped it into the bowl of water, then wrung it out over Sherlock’s feet, watching the rivulets roll along the tendons and linger in the divots between his toes. When John had finished, he wiped Sherlock’s feet dry with his shirt and tossed it aside. Taking one of Sherlock’s ankles in his hand, he raised a narrow foot to his mouth and kissed the instep, the cleft between his first and second toes, the bony protrusion at Sherlock’s inner ankle. Sherlock sighed, and his toes curled.

John slid his hands up along Sherlock’s shins, up over his knees, rested his palms on Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock hummed almost sleepily, sat forward, grasped John by the upper arms and pulled.

In a quick minute they had undressed, hands here, and here, and here, undressing themselves, each other--so many buttons!--lips and tongues exploring newly bared skin of shoulders, inner elbows, Sherlock’s abdomen, John’s upper back.

“You’re glorious,” John murmured against Sherlock’s ear as he lay beside him, gazing down the pale length of Sherlock’s nude body. His open palm ghosted down the length of Sherlock’s arm, hovering just above his skin but not touching, then back up to his shoulder and across his chest, fingertip alighting on Sherlock’s nipple, which instantly hardened under his touch. Sherlock’s hair, normally swept elegantly back from his angular face and held in place with pomade, had shaken loose so that it tumbled in thick, dark waves across his forehead. John raked his fingers through the curls. “You’re falling apart,” he smiled.

“Certainly you’re not surprised,” Sherlock replied, and his long-fingered hand stroked John’s hip, skimmed up the side of his torso.

“I’m thrilled,” John whispered, placing a trail of tiny kisses along Sherlock’s jaw from his chin toward his ear. “Whenever I see you all polished and pinned up in that black suit of yours, with your collar and tie strangling this gorgeous neck—you’re so upstanding and so reserved--I am absolutely consumed with only one thought.”

“And what would that be?” Sherlock breathed. His hand drifted down again along John’s side, sliding inward at the crease of his hip, and John’s breath caught and quickened in response.

The pupils of Sherlock’s almond-shaped eyes were blown wide in the semi-darkness of his little room, and John told him, “All I can think is that when you finally, finally come undone. . .it’s going to be absolutely stunning,” he said. “Like watching stars fall.”

“You missed your calling as a poet, John Watson,” Sherlock told him, and kissed him, and began to stroke him, which made John groan, which made Sherlock’s lips curl up with satisfaction, which made John kiss him hard, licking Sherlock’s tongue. John kissed, gasped, kissed more.

“Oh, Sherlock. . .you lovely. . .my god.”  John’s voice was thick, full of gravel and desperation. “I’m done for.” He thrust into Sherlock’s lovely hand, caught his breath and came—shuddering--shouting against Sherlock’s long, collarless neck. John panted hard, his shoulders and back heaving, and felt Sherlock’s racing pulse pound against his upper lip.

As John quieted, Sherlock reached to guide John’s hand between their bodies. John let out a pleasantly-startled sounding gasp as he slicked his fingers with fluid already seeping, proof of Sherlock’s desire, and began to stroke. John leaned up on his elbow, supported his head in the heel of his hand so he could watch Sherlock’s face, his mouth working silently, his eyes rolling back and fluttering shut, his eyebrows rising in a way that looked so much like amazement.

John pressed a kiss beside Sherlock’s closed eye, felt the fluttering lashes against his lip. He paused in his movements—Sherlock whimpered--to raise his hand to his mouth and lick his palm, his fingertips, then resumed his ministrations with gently twisting strokes. Sherlock moaned his name.

“You are magnificent,” John whispered, “Every sound from your mouth makes me want to fall on my knees for you.” Sherlock caught his breath, shifted his hips upward desperately into John’s hand. John watched intently as Sherlock’s face changed, tensing and relaxing, the tiny creases beside his eyes deepening and then smoothing. “I will never kiss you enough to be satisfied,” John murmured. Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth. “I will kiss you, and kiss you, until no place is left unkissed,” John assured. His hand around Sherlock began to work steadily faster, and a rumbling growl rose from deep in Sherlock’s chest.

“Yes. . .yes. . .” John encouraged him, and kissed him deeply; Sherlock thrust his tongue into John’s mouth practically in rhythm with his hips thrusting against John’s hand. John lips moved against Sherlock’s lips as he urged, “Now, come undone for me, my own one. . .Please. . .My heart. . .Let me see it in your perfect face. . .”

Sherlock gulped air like a drowning man and grasped desperately at John’s bicep with scrabbling fingers. John leaned away again, to watch Sherlock’s face, and his gaze tracked a falling bead of sweat from Sherlock’s temple toward the curve of his ear. Sherlock groaned deliciously and his face tensed, his cheeks reddening slightly, his expression so serious, eyes closed tightly. “Please let me—“ John muttered, and Sherlock let out a strangled sounding breath as John felt wet warmth spilling over, spreading over, teasing at the skin of his hand, his hip, and thigh, and belly.

John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth; Sherlock struggled for control of his breath.

“Exquisite,” John whispered. “I knew it would be.”

Sherlock sighed, grabbed the back of John’s head and pulled him into a deep kiss that went on and on, until they had both calmed, settled comfortably into a melting tangle of limbs, faces pressed together, tongues teasing out now and again to taste each other.

Sherlock’s serious, pale eyes stared into John’s night-sky-coloured ones. “You’ve made a lot of promises, John. In the moment.” He lifted their entwined fingers to his face, kissed John’s fingers. “I won’t hold you to them.”

John smiled his wide-open, guileless grin. “See that you do. Life is short; we’ve no time to waste.”

Sherlock pushed one fingertip through John’s hair, then down his neck, until it rested in the hollow between his collarbones. “You make me hope that life is long,” he said. “I’m probably a fool to admit it, but you’ve won me.”

John laid his fingertip in the center of Sherlock’s lower lip, and he said, “Yes, Mr Holmes.”

*

“Watson, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The breezes this afternoon are so refreshing after all the heat, I thought I’d cut some of my own flowers. I wonder, though, Watson, if you’d help me a bit. The thorns.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“I complimented Holmes on his buttonhole the other day, and he said it was you that arranged it.”

“I don’t think a flower should go to waste, just because it’s a nuisance. They wouldn’t be pretty if we weren’t meant to enjoy them, I reckon.”

“I agree, Watson. One can certainly find beauty—as the saying goes—in unexpected places.”

“Yes, indeed, Madame. I agree with all my heart.”

-END-