Chapter Text
It seems Holmes had it all arranged: a room in a quaint house, at quite an isolated location, only a small village, ten minutes away. The view was splendid, the sun blaring at the walls of the house, a white thing in the middle of the greens and browns of the landscape.
The small group that lived there had been clients to Holmes, long ago, and had promised hospitality as payment — I wasn't Holmes' partner yet when he was of help to them, but he had told me about it in a pleasant march afternoon. They were happy to see us, the two english women, one with a hand on the waist of the other, greeting Holmes with intensity.
That's just the effect he has on people.
I was offered breakfast and promptly accepted it, for the travel was long and void of rest to both me and Holmes. We were sat in a small table in the kitchen area, the younger woman, Janine, heating water for tea. I could almost forget the view of Holmes in his former state; yet, it was etched into my mind, his panicked face against the close walls of the train’s restroom, the sweat on his forehead...
“..wasn't it rather good? …Watson?” Holmes’ voice had brought me over to reality, in which there was no trace that that had even happened — his expression was lax, and his eyes closed as he took a sip of the hot tea. My face snapped up from where I had it fixed, trying in vain to infer the topic of conversation.
The whole morning was spent like this, a slow thing, like we had no worries at all. There were times in which sounds would make Holmes flinch, or that he'd look just a little bit too much to the sides, obviously — to me, at least — looking for something, or, worse, someone. He was uneasy, of course. I was, too. But we stayed on a silent threshold of normalcy that posed as comfortable enough for both of us, and that was sufficient for a good day; we, then, explored the small village by foot, stopping to sightsee or to eat once in a while.
It was rather good.
…
It was late in the afternoon when we reached the house again, only to sit at the nice balcony just outside our bedroom.
The sun was soft on our eyes as it descended through the blues and oranges and purples that the sky held with so much pride — it sent shadows that danced neatly against the tiled floor, the world reflected in such a small surface, and, most importantly, in such a pretty manner. It glowed against Holmes' skin, highlighting the crook of his nose, delimiting an array of expressions I hadn't seen in a while on that face: peace, settlement, tranquil… A vision that, if I had to choose, I wouldn't trade for any natural paradise, ever.
It all fit in. The smell of earth and the knowledge that we could choose to be here forever if we wanted to. Maybe, Holmes would like to retire soon, I thought to myself — with all the Moriarty business done as it is — and this could be just another day, life as normal as one can be, away from the cities and from the constant fight or flight that it so demands from its inhabitants. Maybe, that's why he called me, so we could experiment first. Maybe…
“... This is nice, Holmes.”
I broke the constant rhythm of crickets and whatnot as the sun finally crossed the line of the horizon, all dotted with impressive lakes and mountains; a painting-worthy landscape. Holmes silently took my hand and pointed it to a particularly singular one, that stood out among the others, both for its eerie beauty and its height.
“Do you see that one?”
“hmhm ”
“I talked with some people. They say we must visit it; the Reichenbach Falls. Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“It surely seems like it.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow morning, old chap.”
Holmes smiled. I did, too.
The moon was high in the sky when we got up, only because the cold was biting and we hadn’t brought any coats on our outings. We had dinner with the pair that hosted us, and went to our rooms for the night.
…
I felt one, two hands coming from behind and slowly making their way until they met at my front, and then a head, propped on my shoulder. Holmes’ arms brought me to the present as I looked out the window, staring at constellations and thinking about the tomorrow that awaited for us.
I looked down: his hands were bandaged at the knuckles, still, the gauze starting to wear down from his constant picking; and his arms were nude except for the thin robe I once gifted him. A hand of mine trailed down to meet with the bandaging, relishing the moment of closeness between us, our bodies pressed flush. And as he breathed, I could feel it, and proceeded in the same rhythm with ease.
“We’ve got to change these, Holmes.” I started, unmoving.
“Hm?” He didn’t move, either.
“Yes, old chap. Come on, or you will get yourself an infection.”
We stood there, unmoving, for a while, before he retreated and sat on the single bed behind me. There were two, one in each corner of the room, separated by a sad, small nightstand — on top of it laid my small bag, and on the floor, Holmes'. I walked up to it, feeling Holmes' gaze following me through the small room. A small smile came to my lips.
With the gauze and disinfectant taken, I kneeled before him and took his hands into mine, slowly taking the bandages off and getting to work in the wounds that adorned his knuckles: it wasn't anything too big or profound, but still, it quite worried me as would any other lesion.
Holmes looked down at me with eyes that said “thank you, dear,” and I answered, when I finished, getting up, with a brush of fingers to his thigh and then to his waist and shoulder, with eyes that intended to say “you're more than welcome.”
As I made to walk away, a hand, his hand, stopped me with a soft touch. He had a hold of my waistcoat, bringing me closer with the same tenderness Holmes always had with me. I let myself go with no resistance, and I’d say, even, that I wanted to be maneuvered by him, yes, and never by anyone else.
“Sherlock.”
I saw his face with all the details I’ve grown used to seeing — and which I've grown to love so much — from the skew bridge of his nose to the small jut of his lips and to everything that made Holmes, Holmes.
A hand of mine came to rest on his cheek as I lowered myself to kiss him. His lips met mine in a single movement, and we were quickly intertwined in that embrace, only to, as quick as we got into it, part again.
“We must sleep, Watson, or we won't wake up in time to get out tomorrow.” Holmes broke the kiss and smiled at me, getting up to change clothes. I did the same.
Although the events of earlier weighed in my mind, I went to sleep with a light heart, knowing Holmes was safe in here.
…
Turned out, even with a light heart, I couldn’t sleep. After a few minutes staring at Holmes' laid silhouette in the dark, I silently got up and moved to his bed, making space for myself beside him on the small surface. He let me with a smile, my mattress rendered useless where it lay.
We lied together, and Holmes’ heart beating beneath his skin was never so important than in this moment. And the moment was warm and everything anyone could ever desire, so good it might as well be a dream, of which I could wake up disappointed at any moment, but I never did, because that was as real as anything else.
Nothing mattered more to me than the fall and the rise of the chest that laid beside mine, our breathing synchronized; more than his hands, deep in my flesh, so full of want and need, just like my own; more than his life, now so interlaced with mine as was destined to be. I could live in that moment forever, beside that body of his that so well completed my own.
And that was it, me and Holmes, as one, for life and beyond that. I smiled against his skin and let my eyes close against the already dark room, against the rest of the world, with the certainty that this was as right as a thing could be.