Reunion
by Pandapony

Chapter Four

What power the mind has over the body. And vice versa. Just a few hours ago, my sexual desires dominated all thought, all logic. And now my own guilt was tearing my body apart. In the hansom back to my quarters, I felt like vomiting at every sway of the carriage. My stomach felt as though I had eaten poison. My head pounded. Nothing but heartache could explain why I was in such physical duress.

I thought the tranquil sterility of my small rooms in Kensington would alleviate the worst of my symptoms. But as I sat down, alone, in my barren room, I felt more at loss than ever before.

This room was desperately lonely.

This is the room where I mourned the death of Holmes, the death of my wife. Everyone I had loved had left me, and it was to this room that I had retreated, to nurse my wounds and try my best to continue on. I had failed, I knew that now. The fact that Holmes' return meant so much to me showed that I had been barely living while he had been gone.

I needed him.

The thought soothed my stomach.

I needed Holmes. I looked around the vacant quarters I had called home for three years, and realized there was hardly an ounce of the comfort and warmth of my old Baker Street rooms.

In Baker Street, I was the best friend, the Boswell, of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. I was his famous biographer. I was his partner in deduction. I was a respected doctor with a small number of devoted patients. I was creative, energetic, humorous. I was happy at Baker Street. I was myself.

Who was I here?

I was Dr. John Watson, bored with his patients, run down by the drudgery of daily life, friend to few, lonely, uninspired. Other than revisiting old cases with Holmes, I hadn't written anything in years. I didn't like the Watson who habited this rooms. I missed the old me.

“Your breakfast, sir.”

I turned at the sound of my landlady, Mrs. Bryce. Even she seemed cold and unforgiving compared to the unconditional love and affection of Mrs. Hudson. She placed down a setting for one at the small table. Once again, my breakfast would consist of rubbery sunny-side eggs and weak coffee. I stared at the walls of my room and realized that nothing, absolutely nothing , gave me more happiness than the idea of moving back into Baker Street. Back to my old life again – the life I had been forced to abandon only because of Holmes' death.

I sat down and ate my overcooked eggs and thought hard. I would have to make my mind up now. Knowing Holmes, he was already preparing himself for a life without me. I had surely given him cause for concern the way I had left him.

Regardless of how strained our relationship may be, I decided I had to return, even if life with Holmes after our indiscretion was uncomfortable. The walls of my bachelor pad seemed to be closing in even as I considered the idea of staying here, alone.

The real question was, however, in what capacity was I returning to Holmes? As his best friend and biographer? Or as his lover?

If I chose to move back as only Holmes' friend, I had no doubt he would respect this wish of mine. He had said so only the night before. It was my damned weakness that led to our second indiscretion.

And that gave me pause. How often would I allow my mind to lose control, to let myself be tempted by the ease and comfort of Holmes' embrace? Once that type of forbidden touch was tasted, I found myself completely incapable of fighting it. Twice in eight hours I had indulged in the pleasure of carnally knowing my friend. Could I truly resist it from this point forward, if presented the temptation day in and day out?

Or did I go back, and just let things happen? Give Holmes permission to touch my body, to have hold of me completely, both physically as well as emotionally? There was no doubt in my mind that my heart belonged to Holmes.

The only other consideration was the danger. If we were caught, we would be destroyed. I would say good-bye to my practice, my pension, my club membership, my standing in society. I would be responsible for Holmes' ruin.

But, I reasoned, as I cut through a particularly hard, crusted part of my sunny-side egg, no one had suspected Holmes and I of any misbehavior in the long years we were roommates before. Why would they suspect anything now?

I chewed on my hard egg, a flutter of excitement growing in my chest. I was going back to Baker Street. I was going to join Holmes on his adventures once more. The possibilities were so exciting, my anxiety over this new development faded more and more. Although our behavior would be considered immoral, it felt honest. Every bite of my unsavory breakfast firmed my resolve a little bit more, until I had practically decided my course of action by the time my wretched egg was no more.

I managed to indulge in a restless cat nap for an hour or so before I had to clean up from the night before and make myself presentable for my patients. I was exhausted from the previous night's activities, and wanted nothing more than to close my practice there on the spot. However, I did have a responsibility to those with appointments, so I endured hour after hour at work, listening to their ailments and pretending to give them all my attention.

In reality, my mind was focused on Holmes.

On Holmes as a lover. The more I considered the notion, and the more my guilty sick sensation went away. The thought gave me a surprising amount of pride and satisfaction.

And if it hadn't been for his terrible secret, I probably would never have forgiven him for putting me through those last three years of grief.

My dreary work routine helped cement my decision in my mind. I could be doing this for the rest of my life. Or I could be in Baker Street, solving cases with Holmes, embroiled in political scandals, murders of passion, missing persons. I could be hot in pursuit of the criminal element of the city, instead of sweltering in the city heat, listening to stories of unattended abscesses. By the time my last patient left, I was practically laughing in joy for my decision. Now that I had made up my mind, there would be no going back.

I would sell my practice, and move back to Baker Street.

And I would be Holmes' lover.

I waited for the consequential punch of guilt to wash through me, but now that I had reasoned out the situation, I felt only excitement for this turn of events. True, I was still terribly nervous about discovery. We would be playing a very dangerous game.

But then I would remember the look in his eyes, as he held me, and I realized there was no other choice to make.

At four o'clock precisely, I shut up my office and frantically hailed a cab, with instructions to drop me off at Baker Street.

 
Chapter Five