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2020-11-04
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2005-04-19
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Honesty

Summary:

Watson doesn't think that Holmes can ever return his love and he finds comfort in the arms of another.

Chapter 1: Part 1

Notes:

This fic is a mix of canon and Granada's version of Boscome Valley Mystery.
Part 1 is Watson/Inspector Summerby.
Watson doesn't think that Holmes can ever return his love and he finds comfort in the arms of another.

Chapter Text

Holmes ignored the beauty of nature around him and stared at Watson expectantly. "I don't wish to spoil your holiday, but I was wondering if I could persuade you to join me for a couple of days.*"

Watson may have been on holiday, but it did not even cross his mind to refuse. A case with Holmes was too big a lure to ignore. Plus, he was not having much luck fishing. He knew that he would have much more fun with Holmes. However, he had some pride and tried not to seem too eager, but a small smile slipped through. "Well, of course.*"

"Are you sure?*"

"I shall be delighted.*"

Holmes nodded and gave one of his lightning quick smiles before taking on a business tone. "Then we must move quickly. Our local train leaves in thirty-five minutes.*" He turned and walked away, ever confident that Watson would follow.

Just like that, Watson dropped everything to follow Holmes. Again. This wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last. He chuckled and shook his head at himself, idly wondering what Mary would say if she could see him now.

If John Watson was anything, he was honest with himself as to the reasons for his easy acquiescence to Holmes's wishes. Holmes's three year absence and Mary's observations taught him the futility of trying to lie, of trying to fool himself and her. She was more than astute and the one who told him that he was in love with Holmes. He would never forget that conversation for as long as he lived.

Mary had slipped into Watson's study one evening while he was futilely trying to work. In reality, he was hunched behind his desk and staring at the fire and Holmes's framed goodbye note on the mantle, replaying the events from Switzerland over in his mind yet again. There must have been more that he could have done. He'd let his best friend down. What was he going to do the rest of his life without Holmes? Oh, he was most devoted to his dear Mary. She was truly the best woman he'd ever known. She was steadfast, gave her love freely, and had never complained when he left her at all hours to accompany Holmes on cases. She knew of his need of her, but Holmes was the one who provided color and adventure to his life.

Watson managed a smile for Mary even though his heart truly wasn't in it. "Mary."

Mary came to stand behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. She felt the tension coursing through him. "John," she said softly. "I am most sorry to see you in such a state."

Watson gently patted her fingers. He hated having her as a witness to his weakness. He was supposed to be the strong one. "I'll be fine."

Mary lightly kissed the top of Watson's head. "Mr. Holmes would not wish to see you torture yourself over his death."

Watson's gut clenched and he swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I know. He was prepared for his fate and met it admirably." He paused and shook his head. "But I never should have left him."

Mary leaned down and wrapped her arms around Watson's neck. She affectionately brushed her warm lips across his cheek. "John, you did all that you could," she said with quiet conviction.

Watson refused to lean back into the comfort of her embrace. In his mind, he didn't deserve her compassion. "There should have been more," he stubbornly maintained.

Mary sighed and straightened up. "Come sit with me by the fire."

Watson took the shapely slender hand held out to him. He really didn't feel like talking but Mary didn't ask much of him. The least he could do was listen. "Very well."

Mary led her husband to the two comfortable red chairs facing each other in front of the hearth. She pushed him down into one of them and took the other, all the while keeping her firm grip on his hand. "Repeat after me. Sherlock Holmes's death is not my fault."

Watson's cheeks grew hot. He stopped meeting her eyes and tried to pull his hand away but she wouldn't let go. "Really, Mary--" he spluttered.

Mary squeezed his fingers reassuringly and gave him a look that said he was not getting out of this. "Do it, John."

Watson bit his bottom lip and gave in although his voice was barely above a whisper. "Sherlock Holmes's death is not my fault."

Mary's expression hardened in determination and she dug her nails into his skin just enough to be sure that she had his undivided attention. "Now, say it like you mean it."

Watson remained silent. How could he say that and mean it? Holmes's death was eating away at his soul and he hadn't the faintest idea what to do about it.

Mary wouldn't let Watson get lost in his own guilty thoughts again. She would not let him drown in self-recrimination because she loved him and he was too good a man for that to happen. "What more could you have done, John?" she pressed.

Watson focused on the fire. "I could have stayed with him."

"But he told you to go and your trust in him has been unshakable. Staying was not an option when he ordered you to go." Mary brought Watson's hand to her lips and kissed his palm. She waited until he met her eyes again. "Mr. Holmes's death is tragic and you have every right to grieve, but do not live the rest of your life taking blame for a sin that is not yours."

In his heart of hearts, Mary's words rang true. She always had a way of explaining things that Watson couldn't ignore. In that way she was similar to Holmes. Both of them demanded his attention in different but compelling ways. He cupped her cheek. "Sherlock Holmes's death is not my fault," he said with sad resignation.

Mary turned her head into his hand and placed another light kiss against his palm. "I know how difficult that was for you," she murmured. "But you can begin to heal now."

Watson rested his hand against the side of her neck and knelt in front of her. He guided her head closer and kissed her forehead. "Thank you," he whispered in heartfelt gratitude.

Mary nodded and wrapped her arms around him. "You are most welcome."

Watson shut his eyes against the tears that threatened to overflow. He hadn't allowed himself to cry for Holmes. In that act, he would finally have to admit the truth and give up the last shreds of hope that he would ever see Holmes again, never be drawn into Holmes's contagious excitement when on a case. That part of his life was over and he couldn't help feeling that he left an important part of himself at the bottom of the falls with his friend.

Mary held him tighter as he began to shake. She felt her own eyes grow moist. "That's it. Let it all out."

Watson buried his head in Mary's stomach and let the tide of grief wash through him. She whispered soothing words and rubbed his back until his tears were spent. Then she let him go so he could sit back on his heels. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, handed it to her, and blew out a long breath. "I wonder if I shall ever stop missing him."

Mary dabbed at her eyes and gave a wry smile. "I doubt it but the pain will dull with time."

Watson wasn't sure if the gaping hole in his heart would ever heal. The wound was raw but Mary's understanding provided immeasurable comfort. "Of course, you are right."

Mary sat forward and patted his arm. "Loved ones live on in our hearts, John."

Watson brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Forgive me, but right now that seems like a poor substitute."

Mary laughed softly. "I understand that." She stared at him with a strange glint in her eyes. "I had every right to be jealous of the illustrious Mr. Holmes, you know?"

Mary's tone told him that she wasn't meaning an insult to Holmes and Watson smiled in spite of himself. "You had the patience of a saint, my dear. On more than one occasion I thought that you would protest my involvement in one of Holmes's cases."

Mary shook her head. "I could not do that, not when Mr. Holmes's company gave you such pleasure. I never begrudged the time you spent with him because you are a wonderful husband and have always come back to me. You loved us both. It was only fitting that we share you, although I'm sure Mr. Holmes wished to have you all to himself as he did before our marriage."

Butterflies swarmed in Watson's stomach. What exactly was Mary saying and why was she looking at him like that? "I never meant to neglect you."

"You never did. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not accusing you of anything." Mary smoothed out her lovely blue skirt and sat on the floor next to Watson. "Your heart is more than big enough for your love of me and Holmes."

Watson's back stiffened. "Mary, I think you may be under some misapprehension about my relationship with Holmes."

Mary kissed the tip of Watson's nose. "Not at all, my dear. I feel your love, honor, and devotion to me every day, but I also know that your feelings for Holmes are just as strong. I believe that if our society was not so..." She paused in search of the perfect word. "...stifling, that you never would have looked twice at me."

Watson flushed a deep crimson. The worst part was that he realized that she was probably right, although he wasn't sure if Holmes could have accepted anything more from him than loyal friendship and a stout arm. "Mary," he exclaimed, scandalized.

Mary hugged Watson and rested her head on his shoulder. "Do not worry, John. I'm not angry and I did not tell you this to upset you. I only want you to know that I love you, that I will always try to understand, and that I am here for you."

Watson relaxed in Mary's embrace. "You are too good to me, dearest Mary."

Mary laughed. "You need someone to look after you."

Watson shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. His dear Mary was dead and Holmes was back in his life. In fact, Holmes had returned to him in an overly dramatic fashion, casting off the disguise of an old bookseller while his back was turned. He fainted for the first and only time in his life.

The two men fell into their earlier pattern, best friends and comrades in Baker Street; Holmes, the aloof master detective, and Watson his faithful companion and biographer. Watson never did tell Holmes about Mary's knowledge or the depth of his regard for Holmes. He knew that Holmes cared about him as much as the great detective was able but Holmes didn't believe in softer emotions like love. He lost count of how many times he heard Holmes mock love and scoffed that intense emotions interfered with analytical reasoning.

Watson was content with just friendship with Holmes. He had to be because there was no way that he could ever leave Holmes again. At times, being with Holmes was sweet torture but a life without Holmes would be utterly desolate.

That's why Watson did whatever Holmes asked of him. He could never find it within himself to say no to Holmes and stick to it. So, when Holmes sought him out while he was on holiday and asked for his assistance in Boscombe Valley, he agreed without hesitation. Despite the extreme short notice, he went cheerfully. He packed his fishing gear away and prepared for another adventure.

McCarthy's murder seemed straightforward to Watson. All of the evidence so far come to light pointed to McCarthy's son, James. The police and coroner's court proclaimed the young man guilty and he didn't see a reason to disagree.

However, Holmes believed in James McCarthy's innocence. That should have been enough for Watson but the evidence seemed so damning. He was fascinated by how Holmes would prove the police incorrect.

Watching Holmes's passionate pursuit of an investigation was just one of the things that Watson loved about him. That being said, his deep affection for Holmes didn't stop him from looking at other attractive men and women. After all, he was only human.

An added perk to the Boscombe affair was Inspector Summerby. Summerby was a tall young man with a pleasant, bearded face and amiable manner, who also happened to be a student of Holmes's methods. Holmes and Watson had worked with him once before while he was still in uniform. As Watson recalled, he filled out said uniform quite nicely.

Watson allowed himself brief moments of indulgence in looking Summerby over. It was a small, guilty pleasure that wouldn't amount to much. He was simply engaging in a fun exercise and Holmes was too wrapped up in the case to notice it.

Watson shrugged. //I doubt that he would care. Issues of the heart are foreign to his nature.//

Watson no longer believed what he once wrote about Holmes being all mind and no heart but Holmes did not discuss emotions. Holmes only thought of them in relation to motives of crimes. Watson was honored in that Holmes admitted to and seemed to be proud of their friendship.

Their second evening in Boscombe Valley, Holmes went out on his own and told Watson to stay behind. "How late will you be?" Watson protested.

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not certain. There is no need for you to wait up for me."

"But, Holmes--"

"I will explain everything later," Holmes interrupted imperiously. With that he disappeared out the door and down the stairs.

Watson smiled wryly. "Typical." He only hoped that Holmes would be careful of his own safety.

After dinner, Watson grew bored and went out for a walk. The weather was pleasantly cool in the early evening and many of the townspeople were sitting on their porches, enjoying it. He met Summerby at the fountain of dolphins in the town square. "Inspector," he greeted cordially.

Summerby smiled warmly. "Doctor, I see that you're out enjoying this fine air," he said pleasantly and looked around. "Where's Mr. Holmes?"

Watson shrugged. "Out on his own. He told me not to wait up."

Summerby chuckled ruefully. "Working on this case no doubt. I wish him the best of luck. Since you are free, would you care to join me for a drink at my cottage?"

Watson wasn't sure that was such a good idea. He didn't need any more stimulation for his imagination. Summerby had already featured in his fantasy of the previous evening. Thank Heavens Holmes was in the sitting room brooding over the case and didn't hear him. "I don't want to impose."

Summerby's smile morphed into a full-fledged grin. "No imposition. I hate drinking alone."

Watson had no desire to say no to that hopeful face and mentally cursed his own weakness. "Very well. I accept your kind invitation."

The two of them set out at a brisk, but not strenuous pace. The silence between them was comfortable. The sunset softened the classic architecture of the houses and cast a warm glow over the well-trimmed gardens in front.

Summerby took Watson to a small cottage in the woods, a twenty minute walk from the nearest neighbor. "My cousin, Bill, owns the place. He said I could use it whenever I like. It's nice to get away from my regular lodgings near the police station." He unlocked the front door and allowed Watson to precede him inside.

Watson watched Summerby lock the front door without comment. Then he followed Summerby into a modestly furnished sitting room, with two windows letting in a substantial amount of moonlight. There was a large bookcase against one wall and a luxurious dark red carpet covering the floor. He wondered what the latter would feel like under his bare feet. "Where is cousin Bill now?"

Summerby stood by the table behind the couch and lit two lamps. "Visiting friends in Rome. He'll be gone for another month at least."

Watson had done his share of traveling but never Italy. Maybe one day... "He's a lucky man."

"That he is," Summerby agreed fondly. "He's the real charmer of the family. He's one of those people that others fall over themselves to be near."

Watson thought of the one man that he would do anything to be near. He frowned in sadness for a brief moment over the closeness that Holmes would never allow between them. He took a deep breath and made a resolution not to think about it and enjoy Summerby's company.

Summerby laughed, not seeming to notice Watson's shift in mood or gracious enough not to mention it. "At least Bill never uses his powers for evil. He is a genuinely pleasant fellow."

"Sounds like it."

"I'll go get the scotch. Make yourself comfortable." With that, Summerby disappeared with one of the lamps.

Watson found himself too restless to sit down. He picked up the other lamp and carried it over to the bookcase. Bill appeared to have varied taste in literature. Everything from philosophy, history, ancient Greek plays, Roman poets, including Catullus, and crime novels covered the shelves. His eye rested on the name of Oscar Wilde. Bill had everything the poet and playwright published.

Watson gently ran a finger along the spine of The Picture of Dorian Gray and couldn't help but think of its poor author's fate; prison for loving another man. It wasn't right but there was nothing Watson could do about it. "Such a talent wasted," he murmured.

Suddenly, Summerby was at Watson's elbow. "Are you a fan of Oscar Wilde's, Doctor?"

Watson started and dropped his hand to his side. He'd been too wrapped up in his own thoughts and didn't hear Summerby's approach. "I've read most of Wilde's work," he admitted almost guiltily. He wondered what the policeman part of Summerby would think of that.

Summerby handed Watson a glass. "Me, too."

Watson arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Really?"

Summerby stepped even closer and used his free hand to touch the book where Watson's finger had just been. "Yes. In fact, the Wilde books are mine, not Bill's, but he enjoys reading them as much as I do. He reads my Wilde and I read his Catullus."

If Watson didn't know better, he would have said that Summerby was erotically caressing the book. He felt the heat of Summerby's body so close to him. The younger man wore a spicy cologne that was enticing but not overpowering.

Summerby's voice took on a husky tone. "I find the imagery in some of Wilde's passages to be most stimulating."

Summerby's suggestive tone set the hairs on the back of Watson's neck on end. He took a drink to steady his nerves. The scotch burned its way down his throat and he told himself to step away. He needed to put some distance between them or his body was going to betray him but he was rooted to the spot.

Summerby downed his scotch in one easy gulp and set the glass on the shelf. He leaned in close to Watson's ear but didn't touch. "What do you think?"

Watson's throat went dry. Was Summerby really flirting with him or was it just wishful thinking on his part? He couldn't come up with anything to say.

Summerby laughed quietly, letting his hot breath caress Watson's neck. Then he stepped away and went to the windows. He pulled the shades. "Wilde's big mistake was his lack of discretion. The law is the law even if said law is unjust. One cannot flout it in public."

Watson faced Summerby and wanted to be entirely clear. "You have a duty to uphold the law."

Summerby waved that off. "I'm not interested in that crime especially since many men of my acquaintance are guilty of it."

Watson let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding and finished the rest of his drink. He set the glass next to Summerby's. "I see."

Summerby's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. "Do you?"

Watson's eyes avidly followed the sensual movement of Summerby's tongue. He wondered how Summerby's lips would feel against his. //That is a notion that is definitely worth exploring.// He went to Summerby and stood in front of him. He tentatively reached out and cupped Summerby's cheek. "I do, but why me?"

Summerby turned his head to kiss Watson's palm. "I have always harbored a special attraction to slightly older men, especially those of some distinction. And I will not expect more from you. I have seen the way you look at Mr. Holmes even though he does not notice."

Watson smiled wryly. "These needs and the emotions connected with them are beyond his scope. I accept him for what he is and press for no more."

"He does not know what he's missing." Summerby took Watson's hand and stroked the inside of Watson's palm. "Shall we adjourn to the bedroom, Doctor?"

Watson willingly went with the insistent tug. "By all means. And you had best start calling me John."

"Michael."

End Pt. 1