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The Adventure of the Reappearing Rent	By : manicandyshumway Category: S through Z > Sherlock Holmes (2009) > Sherlock Holmes (2009) Views: 2755 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Sherlock Holmes franchise. I don't make any money from this internet publication. In fact, I don't get anything out of writing this except some attention and an orgasm or two.

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DISCLAIMER: We, the authors of this fanwork (Andrew Shumway and messypeaches) do not own the Sherlock Holmes franchise or any of the characters, places or situations therein. We make no profit from posting this work of fanfiction.
The Adventure of the Reappearing Rent

"Oh, God." Watson sat down heavily on the steps that led up to the rooms he shared with Holmes at 221B Baker Street and placed his forehead in his hand.

It was a quiet night but not silent. There was the clatter of horses hooves on the street below, the creak of the old house and somewhere violin was playing a tune that Watson could not recognize. It blended into the background of his unhappiness so that he did not notice when it ended.

Watson was having a very bad evening, though he hadn't known it until just now. Watson had gone to the boxing ring and placed a couple of lucky wagers. The night had started out rather better than average with a pocket full of notes and a spring in his step. Walking down the street he had found a shiny penny and on the very next block he ran into a fellow veteran and they decided to catch up with each other over a few drinks.

Luck abandoned him on the stoop of an establishment called O'Malley's Pub where he lost all his winnings in a single game of cards. Not to be put out by a single loss, Watson continued to play and before midnight Watson barely had enough money to pay the bill. His brother-in-arms had left an hour previously and had conveniently forgotten to pay for his own beer. To make matters worse, his leg was paining him and he had managed to mislay his coat.

Drunk, cold and aching but not particularly upset over the turn of the evening's events, he had trudged up the stairs to the rooms he shared with Holmes. Somewhere halfway up the flight he realized that he'd started out with considerably more than just the night's winnings in his pocket; he'd had the month's rent, freshly withdrawn from the bank and ready to present to Mrs. Hudson in the morning. A quick survey of his pockets revealed a shilling and a shiny penny.

Watson's regret-filled reverie was interrupted by a door opening and the sound of footsteps on the landing.

Holmes, Watson's friend of only a few months, leaned over the banister at the turn in the stairs, and looked down. The dejection in the angle of his shoulders and wet pant legs meant that Watson had walked home because he'd had no money for a cab. The faint scent of cheap drink, sawdust and a smattering of body odor coincided with his recollection that the doctor had mentioned boxing yesterday.

Sherlock Holmes reflected that one of the problems of being who he was, was simply this: at a glance he knew people very well indeed but because they often did not know him they could be prickly about unsolicited advice.

"I knew you for a gambling man," he said finally. "But even I could not deduce your skill. Too late for dogs or ponies... Dice?"

"Cards." Watson groaned at his own feet. Holmes' habit of putting his finger exactly on the nose was not quite as amusing when it was Watson's nose.

"Ah, cards. Cards are not luck, cards are skill. I suspect you did quite well at first?" Holmes sat down next to Watson. Hummed a moment. "Now, if I recall the reason you went out today..." he let it trail.

"I ran into an old comrade from the Arab Revolts and it slipped my mind." Watson said, standing up with more difficulty than he would admit to. " I'll have the rent tomorrow." He would pawn his watch and take out a small loan and that together with what was left in his account should be enough.

"Would you like tea?" Holmes offered, standing as well. "There's some still warm in the pot." he didn't sound annoyed, more concerned. "You told me once your nerves had not survived the conflicts."

"Have you ever heard an Arab battle scream? Any man's nerves would be frayed with a thousand of them on both sides." Watson was doing his best to regain his composure. It was uncouth to mope on one's own doorstep. "Tea would be nice, thank you."

Holmes nodded. "I have heard one, in fact, but it was a singular man, and therefore quite possibly lacked the orchestral effect you speak of. Come now, you're quite sore and quite tired. Heat and tea will allow you to recover yourself somewhat."

Watson had to place both hands on the railing to keep himself from stumbling up the last few stairs. Pride kept him from asking Holmes to take his cane. He sat down heavily on the nearest chair and was startled up again by the loud crunch of something breaking. It was a pipe, and the stem had snapped right in half. "Oh dear. I'm sorry, Holmes."

Holmes took it from Watson with a thin lipped expression. "Don't dwell on it, my dear doctor. I'm sure in daylight it will be easily repaired" Watson doubted it. "I've been meaning to get a new one anyway," he said, finally.

Holmes made up the tea, putting the slightly sour cream in his cup and the sugar in Watson's. The tea was at a temperature neither hot nor tepid but not unpalatable.

"Thank you," Watson said and then asked something that had just occurred to him, "But what are you doing up at this hour?" It was two in the morning according to the clock on the mantle.

"I rarely sleep when on a case but circumstances demand that now is the time to wait. It's all I can to do to avoid unraveling. Another night of this and it will be the pits for me."

"Figuratively or literally?"

"Literally. Boxing is quite a mental game."

"I'd thought it more physical."

"Not at all. It's a matter of mind allowing the body to overcome pain, and guiding each strike- Next time I go out I extend to you an invitation. I will prove it."

"Sure! I'd enjoy that very much." Watson excused himself to bed after he'd finished his cup. He spent the better part of the next three days divided between fretting over the rent and trying not to contemplate what Holmes looked like stripped to the waist and dripping with sweat. Neither of these concerns were good for his piece of mind.

***

Holmes decided, for once, that any further speculation as to the mystery of the reappearing rent was uncouth.

Besides, when the sun came up he went out. The whole matter of the dead serving girl was tidied by noon, the killer safely in the hands of Inspector Lestrade. With a sigh of regret Holmes was asleep by mid afternoon.

Not as deep a regret as was usual for him, it had to be said. He dreamed of the graceful ballet of boxing; of shouting crowds and drink purring within him and an opponent that stared with hunger in his eyes.

Without work, time melted into meaningless changes of light for Holmes. A day passed, maybe two, before he decided that he was at the perfect blend of rested flesh and whirring mental facilities for boxing.

"Tonight, that venture I discussed with you?" He asked. "When I prove that boxing is an art?"

Watson looked up from the medical publication he'd been studying and smiled, "Certainly! I've only a few appointments this afternoon and I'm entirely free after four."

"Then perhaps dinner first, as I rarely fight before nine," Holmes said.

"That sounds good." Watson accepted and gathered his hat, coat cane and bag. He wondered if Holmes would notice something as small as Watson's belt being buckled a notch tighter. He had been skipping lunch in order to save a few pennies.

***

Dinner was a civil affair. Holmes sat with his back to the wall, looking as out of place in his surroundings as a badger being made to play house cat. Watson being there was immeasurably helpful though. When the deluge of data was too much, he could simply turn to the man and relay obvious findings; such as not to order the soup, and the fact that the bottle of wine had been re-corked and was therefore sent back. Watson, as usual, was quietly astounded by these simple observations. "The wine steward here is crooked," Holmes said, ordering a fine bottle of wine that would turn into half the dinner bill.

Watson frowned at the menu. Even the least expensive entree cost an entire day's worth of his current food budget. He suspected that Holmes would comment if he ordered it, so he went for the second least-expensive and hoped that Holmes would pay for the wine.

Holmes ordered the duck. "It truly is one of the finer restaurants in London," he said.

"Do you always eat so well before you box or is there some special occasion I'm unaware of?"

Holmes looked up, smiled faintly. "Yes."

"Both?"

Holmes smiled, and something in the light and the glint of his eyes made him look eons younger. Like a schoolboy up to no good. "Precisely, my dear doctor."

The term of endearment coupled with Holmes' earnest expression made Watson smile in return. "What sort of occasion, then? Are congratulations in order?"

"That I doubt," and as he said it was not that his expression closed, it was merely that you realized how open it had been a heartbeat ago. "But a dinner was, I felt, in order. And my latest case is closed."

"Well, I'll congratulate you on another case solved! Who was it that murdered the poor girl? I had my money on the rogue they caught in the garden."

"Then I apologize for the lost coin. It was the girl's father," Holmes said. "Not the man who raised her, mind you. Her birth father. It is rare for a woman to be colorblind; the relation was at once obvious."

"My word! Why ever did he do it?"

"Oh, a variety of reasons. The primary being she had come into a small sum of money and was disinclined to give any to an old man who had wronged her mother and squandered his own savings on drink."

"What a terrible thing." Watson shook his head. "Well, at least she can rest in peace knowing her murderer will come to justice."

The food was delicious but Watson couldn't properly savor it. Anxiety over his financial situation added a taint almost like bile. Then he had a perfectly obvious idea; he would place a couple of small bets and with luck he would be able to recover the cost of dinner. With this in mind he managed to enjoy the meal.

Holmes made all of the internal conflict moot by putting the meal on his tab. Watson counted it as luck and decided that he'd risk the cost of the meal on Holmes winning his first match.

***

Outside the doors, Holmes handed Watson a few bills. "If you'll place my bet for me, I would be quite grateful," he said, not waiting for a response.

Then they were inside and Holmes was shedding clothes. "I confess the benefit of a trustworthy friend is an arm to hang my coat on," he said, eyes scanning the crowd.

"Certainly." Watson's eyes were discretely taking in Holmes' freshly bared chest. He glanced away, annoyed with himself for being so curious but his gaze kept wandering back to admire the subtle curves of muscle.

A brief moment of eye contact made Watson feel like a petty thief caught in the act. Holmes smiled, sharp and slightly cynical as he made his way into the ring.

Watson shouted like a boy when Holmes won his first match and bet a larger sum on the second. But by the third he was starting to loose interest in the fights themselves. His attention was strictly for Holmes' figure. The way sweat dripped from Holmes' disheveled hair and down his back; the precise way he stood; the ripple of muscles in his shoulders when he threw a punch.

Holmes, for his part, was aware of the stare. He took some pains to make certain that Watson was rarely in his line of sight. The man's rapt attention was distracting. And Watson was distracted as well. Even from here, in glimpses, Holmes could tell. Anyone who looked would have seen it.

Not that anyone else looked. Holmes saw to that. Straight fighting tonight. Fast and light jabs landing like the stingers of wasps, turning fists like hammers away and making every attack glancing.

From the outside, if one did not look too closely, it seemed an almost even match. Except Holmes never stopped moving and eventually his opponent fell; even when thirst and fierce joy had him taking freely offered drinks from the crowd.

Watson was leaning against a beam, pretending to be favoring his leg. In actuality he'd had a bit too much to drink and his entire body was vibrating with it. How many rounds had Holmes won now? Five at least but Watson would have to ask the bookie to be sure. He'd won a very substantial sum and the crinkle of notes in his pocket was just as heady as the beer in his hand.

On the sixth fight Holmes took a blow to the face that split the skin over his eye and blinded him with blood. It took a great deal of self control to win by the same narrow margin, though it helped that the blow had been an honest one. Holmes poured gin over the cut and hissed at the sting. "Watson!" he shouted with a jerk of his head towards the exit. Trusting that the man would follow.

Once they were free of the noise and humid warmth of the room, Watson was all a-chatter. "By God, I thought he had you for a moment! You were simply amazing! A natural born fighter if ever I saw one! Here, let me have a look at that scrape."

Watson took Holmes' head in his hands and gave a his face a very doctorly once-over, "It's not very bad at all." His hands lingered a bit longer than was doctorly, though it could easily have been an effect of his intoxication.

Holmes' face was again alight with that open, true smile. Taking back his shirt, redressing sloppily. "Not natural at all. A great deal of training. A learned redirection of natural skills," he pushed his hair back off of his forehead. "I trust you made the rent back and we can retrieve your watch in the morning?"

"More than enough-" Watson frowned but was too drunk to be properly upset at having his shortcomings pointed out, "How did you guess that?"

"You kept checking wall clocks," Holmes said, frowning. "I am sorry. You are not a man who can embrace his demons easily. I do not mean insult by acknowledging they exist." He put a hand on Watson's shoulder, rubbing slightly. He stopped quickly, as though caught in the act.

They hired a cab back to Baker Street because Watson disliked walking long distances when he was drunk. It was more hazardous for him than most because of his cane. When they arrived at Baker Street the prickle of alcohol had not left him yet and he was nearly spry going up the stairs.

Holmes followed, amused at the mirth in the doctor's step, in his shoulders. "All people have some touch of depravity in them, after all."

Watson had almost forgotten their earlier conversation, "Well, of course. I've known enough good men with a bad spot. One of my patients, you understand I cannot say whom, is a true philanthropist. He donates great sums to good causes and yet he cannot restrain himself at the dinner table. He is ruled by his heart and his stomach and his stomach is the louder of the two."

"And yours is eternal optimism in the face inviting odds," Holmes said agreeably, pouring a tall glass of something amber and potent for Watson and drinking more for himself right from the bottle. "And I have a deformity of the soul."

Watson grimaced at the flavor of the drink, "What do you mean? My dear Holmes, I've known you for a few months now and I can certainly say that you are a perfectly good soul."

"Twisted, I tell you. Possibly from the heat of the lens of my intellect," Holmes said, taking another deep pull. "At least some have told me as much. Of the deformity, not of the intellect."

"You're going to faint if you don't drink more slowly."

"I have a well trained stomach," Holmes said.

Watson was intrigued. "I'm at the edge of my seat with suspense. What is it?" Watson added quickly, "I don't mean to pry. It's certainly not any of my business if you don't want to tell me."

"Can you not guess?"

Watson shook his head, "I'm no great detective! Give me a hint?"

"A hint?" Holmes was suddenly standing closer. Pushing the cork into the bottle, tossing it to a chair. "A hint, a clue, some word or action to enlighten you."

"Well, yes."

"Indulge me then," Holmes said, head swimming a little. "Indulge me, and lean close. Let me breathe the secret into your ear."

"Alright," Watson chuckled, recalling boyhood secrets whispered behind the teacher's back.

Perhaps he'd planned it, perhaps it was a moment of weakness. Holmes sighed and didn't form word, but pressed his lips to the shell of Watson's ear.

A hot shiver ran through Watson's stomach and he went very still. Holmes was drunk. There was every reason to believe that he'd just lost his balance a moment, "I don't think I quite heard you." he said carefully.

"Another hint then?" Holmes said, hand gripping Watson's shoulder more firmly. Lips pressed again and lingered a moment longer. "Do you have enough clues, my dear doctor, for your diagnosis?"

Watson turned his head and met Holmes' eyes, "I don't believe I do." He did.

"Must I take you hand in all these matters?" Holmes asked, licking his lips. "Or should I repeat myself?"

"No, I-" Watson hesitated and his lips moved almost imperceptibly but not in the act of forming words, "I think I've made the connection now." He put his hand boldly on the back of Holmes' neck and drew him close before hesitating again.

"Tell me your theory then?" The words themselves were almost a dare. The smile was gone now, and his eyes held Watson's gaze with an intensity free of shame.

Watson kissed him firmly, briefly. "Am I right?" he barely murmured.

"Exquisitely so," Holmes said, not daring to move away. Forward was the only option, even if someone as suddenly breathless as he should probably go and sit. Perhaps kneel.

"Would you care to elaborate?" He closed his eyes a moment, breathing in Holmes' exhalations.

Holmes damn near whimpered. "I would, if you will promise to let me finish my demonstration?" His hands were moving even as he spoke, though, palms flat to Watson's chest, down his belly.

For Holmes, the problem with indulging his darkest, most carefully shielded desires with harlots and paid ministrations was that there were certain things one did not do with a prostitute. Not even the discrete, expensive ones. They simply didn't have the physical attributes.

Watson shuddered with a hesitant expectation that made his heart thud in his throat and drew Holmes close for another, slightly longer, kiss. "Please do."

"Then please, sit. Near the edge of the chair, to give me room." Watson's face was flushed with a mixture of lust and mortification as he positioned himself.

Holmes had to lean down to kiss him and then then crane up once his knees hit the carpeting. Buckles and buttons gave way rapidly. "Thank you," and the gratitude was genuine. Watson could not manage to stammer out the standard reply. It seemed too obscene.

Holmes rested his forehead to a thigh a moment. Maybe he had had a bit too much to drink after all. It was a shame they had only a little light to see by. The erect member in Holmes' hand felt formidable; much like it's owner whose fingers flexed against Holmes' scalp.

Watson could not bring himself to look away from Holmes but the mere thought of what the man was about to do was enough to make Watson gasp. Holmes didn't dare look up, though he longed too. He was desperate for all the trimmings of this act. Sounds, smells tastes and the knowledge that the man would enjoy this deeply. He took a breath in before letting his lips brush the velvet like skin of the head. Only for a moment before need overruled him and, with a hunger made keen by time and the fights, he opened his mouth wide.

"Oh!" Watson gasped, his mouth slack with pleasured shock as Holmes' tongue pressed flat against the sensitive belly of his erection. The man was descended from serpents, surely nothing else explained the unhinging of his jaw.

Holmes let his hands grip behind Watson's knees, used that and the ground for leverage to bob down. Watson had never experienced anything quite like this. One of his first affairs had used his mouth but only timidly. Holmes was as far from timid as England was from China. Watson blushed furiously on his behalf and tried to keep his hips still.

A full mouth wasn't keeping Holmes silent, either. Gasps, the hiss of air pulled in too sharply through the nose, wet sounds with each swallow and groan. His chin was on the wool of Watson's pants. Fiery burn of the liquor was drowned out by the taste of musk and sweat, that yeasty masculine perfume. His fingers tightened.

"Ah, ah." Watson's breath hitched and caught in his throat, dragging little sounds out with each exhale. His fingers gripped Holmes' shoulder like a vice. "I'm," his mouth was dry. He wanted to tell Holmes that he might want to stop now because he was so close and- he didn't manage it. "Holmes!"

Holmes moaned instead, feeling every twitching fiber, coming deliriously close to choking on fluids while those fingers dug into his flesh. His own member was a veritable maypole of lust, but it could wait. It had so far.

When Watson was quite done, Holmes pulled away with gentle friction, rested his cheek to the mans chest and listened to the hammering heart, one arm looping his waist.

Watson leaned back, the nape of his neck resting not quite uncomfortably on the back of the chair, trying to catch his breath after what was currently the most erotic experience of his life. He realized that his hand was probably leaving yellow dents in Holmes' shoulder and attempted massage them out.

Holmes rolled his shoulders under the attention. Finally spoke with a voice bent under the pressure of basic instinct and amusement. "I do hope that clears things up for you, dear Watson." Holmes pressed his cheek more firmly to the buttons of Watson's vest as if he were a cat. The hand that had been gripping the top of a calf dropped down to rub the tented fabric of his own trousers.

"I don't believe there is a way to misinterpret such a bold statement." Sated and sleepy, Watson stroked Holmes' cheek, cupped his chin and kissed the side of his mouth. "Would you like to hear my conclusion on the matter?" His hand was on Holmes' chest, fingers fidgeting with buttons until he could slide his palm across a pectoral.

"Yes," he panted, "Oh, yes. Though trying not to interrupt may be hard, so forgive me in advance, please, John Watson."

"Certainly, Sherlock." Watson slid ungracefully from the chair to his knees, seizing Holmes' lips. Watson's tongue made a through exploration of Holmes' mouth while he struggled with the belt.

Watson felt inexperienced in light of Holmes' actions a moment ago. Vaguely he wondered if Sherlock knew or could guess whom he had been with. "I may need you to help me with the vocabulary. I'm afraid I'm not very fluent in this subject."

Holmes let his hands clutch, tugging at fabric and pressing at wonderfully wide shoulders. At this rate it would take no more than the merest caress between his legs to set off genuinely bone rattling tremors. "It won't take more than a few verbs, I assure you," he managed, then laughed. "The sort of words you murmur to yourself alone at night when you're young and the flames of passion strike without warning. Those words. Speak to me like that."

Watson's hands were the steady hands of a surgeon as he coaxed Holmes free of his clothing. It rested heavy and firm in his palm and so soft in contrast to the stubble on Holmes' jaw. It took only a moment to discover a rhythm that kept Holmes breathless.

Holmes spoke in what was clearly his own personal language, panting and groaning and muffling grunts into Watson's ear. His shoulders jerked in time with his hips, and the first dribbles of that most basic of liquids smeared the good doctor's palm. It added another texture to the contact.

The sounds that Holmes made sent little thrills down Watson's spine. He mouthed the muscle in Holmes' neck and teethed his way to the ear.

A rising gasp, a sudden silence and stillness and suddenly Holmes was crying out. One loud, forceful word not fit to be repeated as he snapped at the air and went temporarily blind.

Watson's hand continued the motions until the last traces of arousal had dissipated. His ear rang and his fingers ached from the effort but he felt a subtle sort of pleasure at having elicited such a powerful reaction from Holmes.

Holmes shivered as if in a high wind. He felt invigorated, felt energy pour along his veins in surges even as muscles relaxed slowly. "Haa, my God, John," Holmes presses a kiss to Watson's temple, then his ear making the man shudder.

Watson didn't feel bad about wiping his hand across Holmes' shirt because it was already stained. He tangled his fingers in the fabric and kissed him again. "Do I make a good argument?" he asked, resting his head on Holmes' shoulder.

"That was one of the best I've ever heard," Holmes said, meaning it. No matter how skilled the whore, female was still female and his rare male lovers. Oh, so long ago- He pulled his companion close. "Though there are points I will ask you to explain again, someday."

"Mmm." Watson felt himself nodding off, the combination of alcohol and pleasure had robbed him of any desire to remain awake. "I really should lie down."

Holmes nodded, standing up. Pulling Watson with him. "Normally arguments of this nature leave me invigorated but you have softened my resolve for further activity."

Watson moved unsteadily toward his bedroom, discarding his pants when they tangled around his ankles. He yawned loudly and excused himself.

Legs bare, arse half covered by shirt tails, still in his vest and socks.

Holmes found that image deeply endearing. "I may be smitten," Holmes mused, more to himself than to Watson. Who had not heard him on account of another yawn. Holmes shucked all of his own clothes, perfectly unashamed of his nudity. Watson was a doctor, after all.

Watson slid beneath the quilt with a little shiver at the coolness and Holmes slid in after him like a shadow. Stole a kiss to silence possible complaint. Watson returned it at length but sloppily. He curled into a half ball with his back pressed to Holmes' chest and was asleep in minutes, snoring faintly.

Holmes amused himself a few moments stroking dark hairs on Watson's arm. He draped an arm over Watson, hand on his heart, and drifted to sleep as well.
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The Adventure of the Reappearing Rent