Don't Stray From The Light

A Matter Of Some Urgency

When Michael had cleared the desert plates the two retired to the sitting room with a pack of cigarettes and cups of coffee, lit by an elaborate candelabrum with which to light their cigarettes and to illuminate the room more than the roaring fire could. They sat in opposite arm chairs, enjoying the warmth of the flames and the pleasant calming sensation of tobacco, watching each other shamelessly from the other side of the near dark room while unaware of the other looking back. It wasn't as if John's eyes purposely made for Sherlock, and it wasn't like he was trying to stare either. It was just that there seemed to be something of a gravitational pull between the two, it was hard not to look away from the man as he sat there in the firelight, the light flickering so as to arrange shadows on his white skin in the most peculiar of fashions. There was no conversation, and there really needn't be any, for John knew that even while he admired the view of the man across from him Sherlock was doing just the same. John knew that he wasn't nearly as pleasing to look at, however he wouldn't want to ruin Sherlock's opportunity with conversation, and so he let the man stare. He almost liked the feeling his eyes gave him, like little bouts of static electricity wherever his gaze was fixed. The smoke from their cigarettes lingered up to the ceiling before disappearing, collecting in plumes from their lips and noses after have collected and circulated in their lungs. Sherlock was a very elegant smoker, for his fingers very easily curled around the little rolled paper and his lips clenched with just the amount of force so as to hold it there and inhale. He closed his eyes gently, beautifully, when he breathed in, and then after a mere moment his eyes would fly open and he would drop the smoldering thing from his teeth, parting his lips ever so slightly before blowing the billowing white smoke up to the ceiling to join its predecessors. It was a beautiful scene, one that John had almost gotten transfixed in before he realized he hadn't done much smoking himself, in fact all his cigarette was doing was burning between his fingers, hanging off the edge of the armchair he was sitting in and collecting ash on the wooden floor below. With a blink John realized that Sherlock would have noticed his stagnation, he would have noticed that John was so mesmerized that he had ceased doing anything else but staring with his mouth agape! How humiliating that was! And so in an effort John quickly held his own cigarette to his lips, inhaling and exhaling with some urgency while he noticed the corners of his host's lips turning up in amusement.
"No need to rush, Mr. Watson." Sherlock assured quietly. John nodded, clearing his throat and checking his pocket watch rather guilty, finding that they were now pushing ten o'clock, without even having realized the time that had passed. Four hours in this man's presence, oh how the time flew!
"In fact, well I hate to leave in such short notice, but it's nearly ten and my poor wife has been lying sick the whole night! The hour has escaped me, honestly!" John exclaimed, jumping to his feet and stubbing his cigarette out in the ash tray with some urgency. Sherlock sighed heavily, letting his arm dangle over into the ashtray as if it was quite the burden to get to his feet. If John didn't have a pregnant wife waiting for him he might have stayed longer, and despite Mary's full health he still felt some sort of obligation to return at a reasonable hour. Certainly she couldn't be fooled into thinking police business lasted this long!
"Ah, ten o'clock already!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding legitimately surprised and yet all the more disappointed upon checking the large grandfather clock that stood near the doorway.
"Terribly sorry to run out like this, truly I..."
"No need, Mr. Watson, no excuses tonight! I understand whole heartedly, however it pains me to see you leave I know it is necessary. Michael, if you could please arrange for a carriage for Mr. Watson!" Sherlock called towards the kitchen, where the servant immediately rushed out so as to get the horses ready. As far as John knew it was Michael who drove the carriages as well as made the food and all of the other tasks around the house, and so that alone gave John some confidence that he would have some more time with his host to say their farewells. Sherlock put his hand on his shoulder and started him off to the front door, his grip feeling electric and all together so appropriate while lying on John's shoulder that he was almost upset when he had to interrupt it so as to get his coat on. He wasn't yet sure why Sherlock's touch, gaze, and overall presence was so pleasing to him, and yet he knew for a fact that the more time he spent with the man the more he convinced of his innocence. Someone like Sherlock Holmes surely had no demons, no secrets to keep. He was a perfect creation, someone who was unflawed not only in body but in mind and moral as well, and to think that Greg would ever accuse such a man of the crimes that were suspected was just outrageous!
"I had a wonderful evening, Mr. Watson. I hope I am not presuming your state of mind when I suggest we do it again sometime?" Sherlock muttered, sounding all together unsure of how to approach John on the topic of reuniting. This was the first time he appeared awkward, and to be quite honest John was feeling the same way as well. They had stepped out onto the stood in the moonlight, darkness having long overtaken the sun as the crickets chirped in the grass and the owls hooted in the trees. All was silent, all was peaceful, and for a moment it seemed as though the only humans for miles stood right here on this stoop, standing so close and yet feeling so far away!
"Of course, yes of course Mr. Holmes! I had a lovely time with you, the best night I've had since I've arrived here, that is for sure." John said confidently. Sherlock smiled a genuine smile, dropping his gaze down to his feet in some humbleness as he found himself unsure of how to respond. John had flattered him, and to see that man at a loss was one of the more rewarding aspects of the night itself. Saying goodbye tonight simply didn't seem like enough, and whether or not John wanted the evening to continue or he wanted it to end with something more momentous was beyond him. He knew, however, that when he sat in that carriage and watched the house disappear he would be unhappy if all he got as a parting was a simple goodbye. But among men, what else was there?
"I'm happy to have been a decent host." Sherlock said with a grin.
"Well after ten years I'd say you'd have had every reason to be a lousy one, and yet that was not the case. It was excellent, Sherlock, everything was quite excellent." John said confidently.
"Sherlock." The man responded after a moment's thought.
"I'm sorry?" John clarified, blinking in some confusion as he wasn't sure why Sherlock was stating his own name as if it was some sort of momentous clarification.
"You've never called me Sherlock before." Sherlock commented thoughtfully, speaking as if he had been taking some sort of running total of all the ways John had addressed him before.
"My apologies, Mr. Holmes." John said quickly, worried that he had been rude by inviting himself onto a first name basis.
"No need to apologize Mr. Watson." Sherlock assured kindly, his eyes gleaming with warmth that John had not yet seen of him tonight, warmth that drew him in almost like the light of the fire. And yet it was interrupted, whatever it was, when the carriage rolled up, the loud clomping of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone ripping the two out of whatever trance they had both fallen into, reminding them that the world was still here.
"That'll be my ride." John said finally, looking towards the carriage with some disappointment.
"Yes I believe it is." Sherlock agreed, sounding equally upset to see John go. And yet they were both helpless to make any other suggestions, for one didn't want to overstay his welcome while the other didn't want to keep his companion from his sole responsibilities. It really was a complicated puzzle of politeness, all ending with their innermost desires to stay together. And yet with a mere shake of hands and a last, regretful farewell, John found himself in the back of the Holmes family carriage, listening to the wheels as they turned over the driveway and trying not to think of the solitary figure that had undoubtedly retreated back inside his lonely, darkened manor.