A Great Heart
Holmes loves very strongly. He shows it to the people he loves, he shows it to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Watson throughout the years. He does! But that love is always carefully measured, it's always camouflaged behind carefully justified actions.
For Mrs Hudson, it's bringing her flowers he finds during the cases he has in the countryside. They're never pristine, they're always a bit battered. They're the flowers he briefly steps on when crawling through the ground at night, while he waits for the criminals to reveal themselves for him to catch. (If they happen to be the flowers Holmes knows Mrs Hudson loves, then it's merely a coincidence that his keen eyes "failed" to notice them before he stepped on them, and it's only logical he brings them with him in his pocket, because Mrs Hudson is the only woman he knows who would take in something that is a bit rundown by life, a bit shabby with age. She had taken him and Watson in after all.)
For Lestrade, it's drawing his chair closer to the fire, it's offering two fingers of brandy and a warm meal between colleagues, it's placing a warm and friendly hand upon his shoulder, all under the guise of mere diplomacy. It's making a couple of too many jabs at him, good-natured enough that they're always met with a fond smile and an eye roll, not before Lestrade and Watson share a knowing look. (And it's especially letting him share that knowing look with Watson, though deeply he knows he does it for selfish reasons—to witness Watson's playful smile he only gets to see when he's laughing at Holmes' expense).
And for Watson... For Watson it's playing him soft melodies with his violin to help him fall asleep because it's the logical course of action, it's taking him to the opera and to other concerts because it's what close friends do, it's keeping him close and comfortable for as long as possible while knowing fully well it won't last, because Watson is like the wind, it can't be caught in your hands. And no matter how many songs Holmes plays him with his violin, no matter how many strolls they take through the park, arm in arm and breath warm with rich wine, laughter blooming in their chests and smiles pulling at their lips, bodies warm against each other; he knows this won't last. Because Watson is a proper British gentleman, and it's only natural that he will eventually remarry, and have a wonderful wife and wonderful children; it's only natural that Holmes will end up alone.
So when Holmes starts to feel tired, starts yearning more and more for fresh air and quiet summer mornings, he accepts it and retires. And to his never ending surprise, Watson goes with him.
Something changes between them after that.
Holmes attributes it to the change of air at first, but he feels... Lighter. His face is more drawn with lines and his hair is slowly going gray, but he smiles easier, he laughs more. He feels younger. Reckless. And Watson! Watson gets a playful air about him. His sense of humour definitely gets worse, and Holmes loves it. And maybe it's because it's just the two of them in a cozy cottage in the middle of nowhere, with the smell of the nearby ocean in the air, but Watson looks at him differently, touches him more frequently, all warm palms and gentle fingers. Like he wants something from him but is content to wait for it patiently, because they have all the time in the world. Even if Holmes doesn’t know what it could be he's waiting for.
It isn't until a whole year passes that Holmes realises he had stopped making excuses for himself. He brought Watson tea when the weather was particularly unpleasant and he knew his leg would start bothering him soon, even before Watson himself realised it, not only because it was logical, but because he wanted to. He made sure that the young woman who helped them with their food and laundry always had a little extra money in her pocket when October grew closer—mindful of the young, dark haired boy that would often hold onto his mother’s hip while she worked and she had no one to keep an eye on him at home. Mindful of the cheerful smile that had curved on the boy’s lips one afternoon when he’d told them excitedly that in October he would turn six years old and finally become a big boy! He sent Mrs Hudson the flowers she loved, no longer when they were shabby and battered and hastily torn from the ground in the darkness of night, but only after they were carefully chosen by his not-so-keen eyes anymore from one of the many flower carts he found on the streets, when the rare occasion came and he ventured into the city. He earnestly encouraged Lestrade to visit them when he found the time, and delighted himself when he showed up, and all three of them sat to eat and drink and laugh, reminiscing about their joined past until the late hours of the night, before Lestrade would settle into their guest room for a couple of hours of sleep before taking a train back to London, with the promise to come back when he could.
But it isn’t until one morning, when he wakes up and finds Watson standing in their kitchen, staring contentedly through the window, a hot cup of coffee in his hands, that he realises. He is happy, and this time he doesn’t need to construct a careful excuse behind it. Hasn’t needed to for a long time.
“Watson,” he says, voice full of awe, and it’s like he’s breathing for the first time. Watson turns his head towards him, and the smile that curves his lips is a knowing one. The look in his eyes is a knowing one. Wait’s over.
“Come here,” is all he says, gently, and Holmes complies. Watson leaves the cup of coffee on the counter, grabs one of Holmes’ hands with his own and guides it to circle his back and rest upon his stomach, slow enough that Holmes can stop him if he wishes. When he doesn’t, Watson pulls him closer, drawing Holmes’ chest towards his back until they’re flushed together, Holmes’ chin upon his shoulder. After a moment, Holmes places his other hand upon Watson's stomach, fully embracing him, and when Watson covers his hands with his own, he sighs.
“Your hands are warm,” says Holmes softly, to Watson’s neck. He’s inadvertedly closed his eyes, and he feels more than hears the chuckle that leaves Watson’s lips in response.
“Well, I was holding a hot cup of coffee just a moment ago.”
Holmes buries his nose deeper in Watson’s neck. His lips tickle the skin there when he replies and Watson shivers. “It's not that. You’re always warm, to me.”
Watson kisses him. And he’s warm, like he always has been, and he tastes like coffee that is too sweet for his taste. And Holmes wouldn’t trade that feeling for the world. Never had to.