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Clueless	By : almightysempai Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 11473 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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- 1-Clueless
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When recalling which of the many singular adventures of Sherlock Holmes I decided to relate to the public, I must needs confess that my choices have been rather one-sided. Always I have endeavoured only to share those cases which portrayed either the best of my friend Sherlock Holmes’ remarkable deductive reasoning skills, or that were the most sensational and exciting. It is usually not my pleasure to recount times in which my friend utterly failed in his reasoning, but perhaps this adventure is too important to pass over. Though it is unlikely that the general public will ever read this tale, and perhaps it will only be for our own satisfaction, it is doubtless that the tale yet needs telling. After all, some say that love is the ultimate adventure.

I do not need my notebook to remember that it was a summer’s evening when Holmes and I were seated across from each other before the mantelpiece, and the night was so fresh and cool that we had slid open a window or two. Though I am usually not a man for overly romantic scenes, I admit that it was a very beautiful night, and perhaps it contributed to my mood. Holmes was deep in thought, smoking his third pipe of the evening and letting the smoke curl sensuously up from his lips. I knew he was pondering something important, yet it was not urgent, or he would be pacing around, as was his habit. My limited deductive skills, however, did not provide me with enough clues to guess at his thoughts. I was soon to find out on my own, anyway.

“Watson,” he said, the first words he had spoken in three hours, “something has been bothering me for some time now. I wonder if you can help me put a finger on what it is.”

Confused, yet intrigued, I sat forward. “Go on,” I replied, eager to be of some help to the man I so respected. “What sort of thing is it?”

“That’s the thing,” Holmes said, flipping his pipe over in his fingers. “I’m not sure myself. But I don’t believe it’s anything tangible.”

I felt a twinge of worry, a product of my career in medicine. “Some sort of disease? An ailment, perhaps?”

Holmes waved a hand in dismissal. “No, nothing of that nature, I shouldn’t think.” I wondered if he noticed my visible relief. “No, I believe it may be something more… spiritual.”

I admit that I was somewhat surprised by this confession. I have previously described Holmes as being like a brain without a heart, and although that was certainly an exaggeration it was nonetheless unusual to hear something of that nature coming from him. He never spoke of church or religion except in the same way he spoke of love, or the fairer sex—that is, with a gibe and a sneer. Holmes seemed to realize this.

“I know it sounds strange,” he said with a tiny smirk. “I am not the most devout man you will meet, and yet I have no doubt that this is not a condition of the body, but of the soul.”

By this point I had slid from my chair and made my way over to him. Despite mild protest, I laid a hand to his forehead. He was as cool as the night air. I sat back down again in puzzlement, and determined I would try and help him as if I were addressing a medical patient.

“Tell me, how long have you had this affliction?” I asked, picking up my notebook.

“Well,” Holmes started, sliding down in his chair and crossing his long legs at the ankles, “that would be hard to pinpoint. However, I can guess that I first noticed it near on six months ago.”

“Interesting,” I said, making a note of the date. Six months was a long time to go on with any sort of affliction, so it mustn’t be too serious, I thought. “Can you think of anything that may have triggered it?”

“Let’s see,” Holmes mused, taking a long drag at his pipe. “There were no particular cases that caused in me any reactions other than the usual satisfaction of having solved something. No singularly dreadful events, no sicknesses…” He glanced over at me. “No, the only thing I could think of is our first taking lodgings here on Baker Street.”

“But we had already been living here for five months then,” I pointed out, and Holmes nodded.

“You’re right. I don’t know.” Now he got up and began to pace, exhibiting that behaviour common to one of his dark, impatient moods. I could see that if nothing else, this unknown malady was bothering him simply because he could not crack it.

“Describe to me what you feel,” I prompted, in an effort to get him thinking.

“It is difficult,” Holmes admitted. “A sort of restlessness, and vague desire for something.”

“A physical desire, perhaps?” I said with a raised eyebrow. It was certainly not an unreasonable question, considering I knew enough of the man’s habits to infer that he was not personally knowledgeable in a carnal sense.

My words elicited a little chuckle. “No, my dear man, I don’t think so. More of a spiritual, emotional yearning.” Somehow, it seemed to him more difficult to admit this than if it had been a mere physical desire—perhaps because a physical desire would have been easier to explain away. After all, the body that was an appendix to his brain was a human body.

“Is that all?” I pressed. “Surely there must be more details. When do these feelings occur?”

“There is a pattern, but I cannot seem to put my finger on it,” Holmes murmured, chewing on the end of his pipe as he paced. “The feelings come in attacks, at seemingly sporadic times. Usually when I’m not on a case, during the day while I’m at home. But there have been occasions when I have felt the same feelings during a case, or out and about.”

“Very interesting,” I mumbled, stroking my moustache. And like puzzle pieces, an idea began to fall together in my mind. Never before had I seen the clues strewn so clearly in front of me. But I wasn’t sure; I could not be sure until I had them all together. It was so delightful for this one time to be playing the part of my dear friend. “Go on.”

“Perhaps I could describe it as a sort of absence. Some primal spiritual need. Not loneliness, but a feeling that I am not quite… complete.” Holmes pacing quickened. He did not like to admit all this. He didn’t see the usefulness of it, I’m sure. He did not, but I did.

“A feeling like perhaps you need something more, like a symptom of withdrawal or addiction, but with an emotional aspect rather than a physical? Like your life is somehow not enough anymore, and you require something to fill the gap?”

The pacing suddenly stopped. “Why, Watson,” Holmes said, turning and pinning me with a confused stare, “I would be ready to swear that you have had the same ailment. You have described it down to the letter.”

I gave him a slight, knowing smile. “I believe I may have some insight into the matter after all.” I watched Holmes’ expression with satisfaction as I turned the tables of suspence on him and put my notebook away. “We shall talk more of it in the morning,” I said, rising with a yawn.

“You can’t be serious, my good fellow,” Holmes whined, catching me by the sleeve. “I need you as my sounding board to figure this out!”

This time I chuckled at him. “Oh, I should doubt you’d come to much understanding of it even if I stayed up all night. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Holmes relented and let go of me, and I made my way up to my rooms in silence. It was only when I had closed the door behind me that I let my utter astonishment show. I fell back onto my bed, scarcely able to believe the exchange Holmes and I had just had. It had been no great task to describe to Holmes what he had just described to me, and what I had myself been feeling for close to the same amount of time. But I, who am slightly more connected with my emotions and inner feelings, knew exactly what the ‘ailment’ was. But hearing it come from Holmes… That had been entirely unexpected.

Mentally, I reviewed all that he had told me. I carefully aligned dates and times in my head, thought about our daily habits. I definitely agreed with him on one point; neither of us felt this way when he was on a case. Perhaps the reason for this was cloudy to Holmes, but to me it was perfectly clear—it was because we were together.

I spent the whole night lying awake and staring at the ceiling. I wondered how this had come to be. For me, it was not such a hard thing to imagine, but with regards to Holmes, the concept seemed foreign indeed. That was why he could not decipher it. To him, it was foreign. And yet, thinking of that side of Holmes filled me with the most inappropriate but wonderful sense of joy. To find that my description of Holmes as a brain without a heart was proven not only an exaggeration but also an untruth was to me a more important discovery than the solution to any one of Holmes’ cases. It was a thought on which I still dwelt the next morning when I descended the stairs for breakfast. I found Holmes seated at the table, but his plate was left untouched and his eggs were cold.

“Watson, I—” he started, then cut himself off. He seemed ready to stab either himself, the eggs, or me with his fork, and I thought briefly about taking it away from him. “You were right, maybe. I have given thought to the matter all night, and I still have not been able to come to any definite conclusion.”

I felt some trepidation as I sat down beside him. Now that I was actually going to speak up, rather than let him do all the talking, I found my voice coming unusually shyly to me. “I shall enlighten you, then,” I said, and I cleared my throat.

“By all means,” Holmes gestured excitedly. I wondered what effect my next words would have on him—whether that pleased expression would be replaced with one of disgust, or whether he would even care.

“What I have deduced that you have not, Holmes, is that both of us have felt these same symptoms when we are alone.”

Holmes gave that a minute of thought. “But that can’t be true. Perhaps I feel it sometimes when I am alone on a mission in public, but there are times during the day when I am here and I feel it, but Mrs. Hudson is also here.”

“When we are alone from each other,” I clarified. I watched as his brows furrowed, and then rose in surprise.

“You are right, though there is the possibility that it is mere coincidence. But then… it might describe why I have only felt this way since we have moved in together.” He began mumbling to himself, counting off on his fingers, no doubt making the same realizations that I had come to last night. But to him, those realizations did not have the same significance. He turned to me once more. “But what does it mean?”

I gave a sigh, steeling myself to speak those words which I had held in for nearly six months, which I had realized before Holmes even had an inkling of the nature of what he was feeling.

“Perhaps all can be explained by those ‘softer emotions’ that you so hate.”

“Affection?” Holmes asked incredulously. For being a detective of such genius, there were times that the man was absolutely clueless.

“Yes, affection, but more than that, my dear Holmes,” I said. I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and did that which I had been longing to do. I put my hand atop his.

Holmes did not move, his eyes widening and fixed on our hands upon the table. I saw this through a slit in my own eyes, and blinked them fully open when I realized he was not pulling away. Rather than disgusted, it seemed to me as if he were undergoing some great revolution, some staggering epiphany, greater than the solution of the most singular criminal case.

“Love,” he said softly, still staring at our hands. And then he did something that I never expected him to do—he turned his hand over in mine so that they were clasping, and he squeezed me gently.

“Holmes…” I said, but my words fell on deaf ears.

“Love,” he whispered. “Yes, yes of course. I see now. It all makes perfect sense, in retrospect. Perfect sense. Love.”

“Holmes,” I said, a bit more loudly this time, capturing his attention. He looked me in the eye, blinking. “Does it bother you? What are you… what are you thinking?”

He was silent for a minute, before answering, “My dear Watson, as you know, I have never been one with much regard for the particular conventions of society. Criminal as such feelings may be, I don’t believe anyone has the right to govern them, especially as they cannot be helped.”

“Cannot be helped?” I said with a hint of a smile. “What makes you think they cannot be helped?”

“Because, my Dear Watson,” he replied with a smirk, “if there would be anyone to help them, it would be me.”

It was certainly true, yet the words stung a bit. Too late, Holmes seemed to realize this.

“But for your sake,” he amended, “I will not even try.” He gave my hand another gentle squeeze.

It was awkward to him, more foreign than China or Nippon, but the small act in and of itself meant more to me than can be expressed in words. Holmes gave me an awkward smile. “I still cannot believe… I must appear such an idiot.”

“Aye, Holmes, a bit,” I admitted with a grin. “But as new to this as you are, so am I. I have never before had feelings for a man.”

Suddenly, Holmes seemed terrified, as though the full implications of our conversation were only beginning to truly sink in. “Love… Watson… What am I doing? I have no idea.”

I laid a finger gently upon his lips. “Shush, Holmes. Think of it as a case. Each clue unfolds a part of the mystery. If you knew it all at once from the beginning, it wouldn’t be any fun to solve.”

“Right you are, my dear Watson,” Holmes grinned. “Right you are.” And then, with all the boldness he displayed when cracking one of his beloved mysteries, he pressed our lips together. It was clumsy and rushed, and amateur on both our parts, and yet it was the sweetest kiss I have ever had. I savoured the taste of him, sweet tobacco and mint, and more than that, I relished the feeling of that hole of yearning inside me being filled. Filled with him, my Sherlock Holmes.
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Clueless