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The Injury	By : pandapony Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 16212 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
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In the morning, I awoke to find Holmes sitting at the dining table, reading through the morning papers and smoking. I immediately prepared to launch into a long diatribe about the meaning of bed rest, when he suddenly held out his hand to me.
“Please, no lectures, Watson.” He smiled warmly. “I am aware of your advice, and I give you my word that I will not stray from the sitting room all day.”
“You’re supposed to be laying down,” I scolded him anyways. I sat across from him and opened up the tray to reveal a healthy portion of eggs and ham from Mrs. Hudson. I sniffed and moaned in appreciation.
“I was hungry,” Holmes told me.
I raised an eyebrow. Holmes’ appetite was a fickle thing, and I expected him to have lost it completely after such a night as last. But his plate confirmed his claim, showing only trace remnants of what seemed to be a large meal. Holmes poured me some coffee, and even added my cream.
“Thank you,” I said. I started into my eggs, pulling one of the papers from Holmes’ stack.
“Besides, I wanted to share breakfast with you,” Holmes said casually. He put out his cigarette. “I have not seen much of you lately, what with your practice getting to be so busy.”
“And your case,” I added, looking up to see his expression. I had a nagging suspicion that this “case” of his was nothing of the sort. It had been an excuse to indulge his carnal appetites. Strangely, this lie made me feel better. I did not like being excluded from his work, and knowing that there was a chance he had kept me out of it simply because there was no case pleased me.
“Hm. Yes, indeed,” Holmes said, eyeing me carefully. “Well, no matter. I believe this will be a productive day nevertheless. I intend to finally organize my clippings.”
“Thank heavens,” I said. His notes and clippings had been piling up in every flat surface of the sitting room for six months now. It was getting to be a desperate mess.
“Assuming I have your permission to engage in such strenuous work, Doctor?” Holmes raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched in suppressed mirth. He was certainly in a better mood than yesterday.
I smirked back at him. “You have my permission. As long as you take it gently, and lie down in your bed if you feel the need.”
The words caused a flush of heat through my body. I quickly looked down to my plate, and shoveled some ham into my mouth. Good Lord, was this really going to happen every time I said something even mildly suggestive? What had happened to my mind?
Holmes watched me carefully. I could feel his gaze piercing me, even though I did not raise my glance to meet his.
“As you say,” he said quietly. He watched me like a hawk as I ate the rest of my meal in haste.
I ran several errands that afternoon. To my relief, when I returned home, Holmes was still in our rooms, dutifully sorting through a mountain of clippings placed around him on the carpet. He was surrounded by articles, and humming to himself as he smoked and catalogued.
I unfolded the paper and stretched out on the settee above him. I intended to read, but I found myself distracted by my friend on the floor. I studied him silently. I had known him for so long, and yet now, knowing this new fact about him, I could not help but be amazed. Holmes was a sodomite. He was not the virgin I imagined him to be, but rather experienced, and receptive to sexual advances. I imagined him with another man, and my thoughts flushed my entire being with a hot ache. It was so absurd, imagining Holmes pleasuring another, and yet, now, I could almost see it, see him engaged thus.
How had I thought him cold and unfeeling? He had so often professed his lack of interest or capacity to love, I had convinced myself. But surely I had been fooled. I knew Holmes better than anyone, and knowing him, I should have detected the lie. There were moments when Holmes showed almost heartbreaking tenderness towards me. His great love of Mrs. Hudson, while usually masked behind insults, was apparent. Even his fondness for Mycroft and Lestrade was without question. This was a man of deep feeling, who had taken on the pretence of being heartless and calculating.
And why the pretence? Surely to hide his unconventional nature. I had always accepted Holmes’ bohemian lifestyle, but only now connected it with other aspects of his personality. His flair for the dramatic; his tender touches to my shoulder in times of need; his keen eyes shining when a handsome gentlemen came to call upon us for aid; all of these little clues that told me I had been wrong in assuming him to be nothing more than a machine.
It is truly remarkable how one missing piece can make an entire puzzle snap into place. This was the clue I had been seeking for years in understanding the singular personality of my friend. And knowing such, knowing that he had trusted me with such a critical clue, left me feeling content with the great bond between us.
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The Injury