Author: lisztful
Title: Infinite Variations Upon a Single Moment
Rating: PGish for references to vaguely sexual behavior
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me.
Spoilers
Summary: Transgender!Holmes fic. Holmes presents a case of a very personal nature for Watson to ponder.
Author’s note: Beta'd by erda, who is the most fantastic beta in the land, and also an all around awesome individual and cheerleadered me into writing this. Written for torachan, who mentioned an interest in Holmes trans!fic. This is set in the movieverse, though it's slightly au because in the movie Holmes boxes with his shirt off, and here it is assumed that he's fully clothed when he boxes. Apologies for anything that contradicts the books, I haven't read them since I was very young and really I don't remember them.

This can also be read at the archive



It's been brewing between them for what seems forever. Watson has long since come to realize the manner in which Holmes affects him. He draws him out of his skin, out of his history, the war, every lost patient he can't quite forget. In the mesmerizing presence of Sherlock Holmes, all the long years of fruitless prayers-Heavenly Father please forgive me, I've been stricken with unclean and lustful desires for another man-all of that fades away. Holmes is so unlike anyone he's ever known, so rakish and wild and brilliant that it sometimes makes him wonder what his life could have been if he'd chosen some life other than the army. Perhaps if he'd left home, gone to Paris. He's always fancied himself a bit of a writer.

Holmes corners him on the night before he's supposed to move out for good. Yesterday should have been his last day, but today at tea with Mary, Holmes gave him that soft, secret look, and now he's here, having given Mary another flimsy excuse. Just one last night.

Holmes is at least as disheveled as Watson has ever seen him, and perhaps even more so. His hair is wild, his cravat undone. His skin is tawny by the lamplight.

"It's vicious, this parting," Holmes says, and his fingers curl around the neck of his violin where it hangs loosely at his side. "I hadn't given it a second thought," he says, "Not until this afternoon. I was taking tea with the vicar, you see."

Watson doesn't see, but he does know that Holmes is lying, at least on one point. He can't help but think on everything, especially those things that puzzle him. He's made no secret of his desire for Watson to stay, so that he's waited until now to present his case can be attributed either to dramatic effect or some perceived advantage. Watson suspects the latter.

"Do get on with it," he says. "I'm tired, old boy."

"You've no taste for presentation," Holmes says, "But very well." He plucks a chord, sharp pizzicato. Watson's ear isn't good enough to say the key, but it's something strident.

"The case of John Watson and his lady love," Holmes singsongs, and he's very close, his breath tinged with whiskey and tobacco. "Point the first," Holmes says grandly. "When I box, you are nearly always in attendance. You disappear some halfway through the night, though never during my own performance. When you return, you look just the same, unaffected by the weather, no matter the conditions of the outside world. Your pulse is elevated, your demeanor is flushed in pallor. Occasionally you forget yourself and neglect to straighten up your kit. The timely nature of your disappearance indicates that during these solitary ventures to the rented rooms, you do not assume a position of full dishabille, but rather restrict yourself to the smallest of concessions." He mimes unbuttoning his trousers, and the crudity of the gesture doesn't suit him. His fingers move back to the violin to pluck another series of notes, rising in pitch. Half step modulations. Holmes has a very precise ear. "I wonder what it is about these boxing matches that requires such rapid attention?"

"Point the second," Holmes continues. "Your instinctive flinch upon my mention of the vicar. Is it irreverence, think we? No, too shrinking. You're like a violet, dear Watson. No, it's shame, I'd know the taste of that anywhere, and you reek of it, my friend."

The room is too warm. Holmes is always extravagant with the heat, throwing extra logs onto the fire during his late night fits of intellect. Watson pulls a little at his collar, discomfited. "Are you quite finished?" he asks, and he thinks his tone of casual aggravation probably sounds sincere.

"Nearly," Holmes replies, and leaps up onto the divan. "Point the third. Three points, for Peter's three denials of Jesus, and for yours too. Onward?"

He doesn't wait for Watson's nod. "Enter our dear friend Mary. Virginal Mary, fair of hair and lily-white in complexion. Mary who is undiscerning, and has never had cause to hear idle talk of inverts, for she's just a bit above that. Tell me, Watson, was it her name that convinced you? Did you meet her at the Sunday services? Did the good Father introduce you? Is the Virgin Mary your salvation?" His voice cuts cleanly, bright and brutal in the too-thick air. "I suppose it would be too crude to spell out my conclusions any more frankly, now, and far worse, it would be banal. You already know, after all."

Watson sinks down into an armchair, old and too soft. He falls heavily against the flattened springs, and feels rather as though he's drowning. "Why are you saying this?" he asks finally, and his voice is heavy. "Not that you're correct, of course."

Holmes chuckles. "Please do try not to be a sore loser, Watson, my conclusions are most certainly correct." He takes a little bow, rocking the clawed feet of the divan. "As for your motives, those are by far the most compelling portion of this investigation, although I must confess, they are also the most transparent. You've tried without success to rid yourself of what you perhaps view as an affliction. Of course, I believe you were content with it for a time, once your military tour taught you to take what small happinesses you could find. Alas, I fear I overwhelm you. I am not the sort of man who may be dragged into a dark alleyway for tuppence. You know I'd never let you cover your face, nor deny a moment of it, after. You do love me, in your own way, but I fear you find me too inscrutable, and I suspect you're not wrong on that count."

And then it's out in the air. Watson feels curiously relieved, though it's tinged with a faintly nauseous feeling, and his body is awash with tremors. "Sometimes I thought you cared for me," he says heavily. "Fleeting moments, brief touches, but it always seemed so clear. When I felt as though you returned my sentiments, I knew no revulsion for myself. Yet you always turned away and hid yourself. Is it so wrong to wish myself free of this endless watching?"

"And Mary?" Holmes asks, a curious expression upon his face.

Watson sighs heavily. "Mary has been a true friend to me. She believes that my tour of duty has stolen away my regard for intimacy. What's more, doctors have told her for years that she is barren. She had no real hopes for children; she gave that up long before she met me. Can you blame her interest in me? I'd not fault her for an inability to conceive, as I'd never set foot in her boudoir in the first place. She could have a worse life. We both could, I suppose."

"Indeed. Fascinating. You weren't wrong about my interest in your affections," Holmes says, and he has gone fiercely alight, his features darkly animated as he leans forward on one leg where it's bent upward, his bare foot pressing down upon the arm of the divan. "I do want you," he says, and tips forward, leaping neatly onto the floor with another burst of plucked notes. A scale, harmonic minor. The little jump between the sixth and seventh tones is jarring, sounding a little bit like the music of the East.

Watson's temples feel heavy with an impending headache, and he drops his face forward and into his hands. "Why are you telling me this, now? Why do you think it should make me wish to stay, knowing that you'd like to have me, but for whatever reason, have chosen not to?"

This time, Holmes's laugh is dark, almost ugly. "I've nothing left to lose," he says shortly. His tone when speaking to Watson is generally warm, almost teasing, but this is nearly flat. He places the violin on his worktable, the gentle touch a surprising contrast to his countenance.

He's back beside Watson in an instant, the change of demeanor startling. "I'll conduct an investigation of my own behavior momentarily," he says, "But before, please allow me to kiss you. No matter what else happens, I should like to have that."

"Holmes-," Watson says, but doesn't know how to finish the sentence. Then Holmes is leaning forward over the armchair, edging his knees to either side of Watson's thighs and pushing up to kneel over him. The kiss is unexpectedly slow, a meeting and pressing of lips that seems to last an eternity before Holmes licks into his mouth and the kiss goes searing and wet.

Holmes while kissing is the same strange combination of sensual and precise that he always is, tasting of a collection of his vices. His shirt is cool where the collar brushes Watson's jaw, and the sensations are too many, too varied. If he thought he was drowning before, then there are no words to describe his current condition.

Holmes draws a rough hand through his hair, the sensation pulling taut the strands that begin at the nape of his neck. Watson works so hard to be tidy, properly kitted up, but Holmes makes him want to be as wild and unkempt as Holmes is in his tattered dinner jacket and loosed cravat.

When Holmes finally draws back, they're both short of breath. He sits up on his haunches for a moment, considering. "This alone is enough to convince you to stay, isn't it?" he says, and his tone is musing, curious. Watson can't deny it.

"All I ever required was a single word," he says quietly. "That you give me this is beyond my wildest hopes. I think I love you as I've never loved another, and I've had my fair measure of men."

"Ah well," says Holmes, and he sounds almost flippant. "Your mind may yet be altered during the course of this evening."

"You promised me an explanation," Watson says, and dares to rest a hand on Holmes's arm.

Holmes sighs and backs off the chair, standing to pull a footstool over. He sits down at Watson's side, reaching again for his hand. Holmes has strong, wide fingers, and they're warm and dry as they lace into Watson's, his thumb grazing over Watson's palm.

"Dear doctor," he begins slowly, "I'm sure you are aware that as a medical man, you see the world quite differently than do I. You see an order, a system of categories that defines humanity and all that lies around it."

"I can't but agree," Watson says. "I do approve of order."

"Of course you do," Holmes says, squeezing his hand gently. "However, you must admit that I view the world quite differently. For myself, it's the tiny, fleeting moments that are the most important, those in which humans declare their true selves, and more often than not, display their guilt or innocence in the case of certain deeds. I think it is not terribly assumptive to say that my system has its own logic. Everything I see around me is part of a vast field of knowledge, each piece important in its own right."

"I can accept that," Watson says, "I've seen you work, I know your method is both accurate and effective."

"Thank you," Holmes says briefly, then looks down at his ankles. "I should like to press this line of reasoning further, and say that many things that you consider to be quite singular are in fact made up of a series of little moments, all held together by some narrative thread. For instance, you are a military man. This is conveyed by not just one thing, but rather by many. The upkeep of your figure, your manner of dress, the cut of your hair, even your wounded gait. This is not to mention your actual tenure in the service, and all your experiences therein. Alone, these elements would have little power, with the possible exception of your rather extreme manner of dress. However, together they form a concept. This is also not the only combination of various factors that could lead me to the conclusion that you are a military man. Is that quite clear, dear fellow?"

"It is," Watson says. "But I still don't know what it has to do with you."

"Ah," Holmes replies quietly. "You shall, soon enough." He rocks a little upon the footstool, pensive.

"Go on," Watson says encouragingly. "I should very much like to hear this."

"I can't deny you, Watson," he replies. "John. Here's another word for you to consider, half of your previous sum: man. You've grown up to be a man thanks to a variety of factors. You have your birth to thank for part of it, a privilege you've probably never thought to be thankful for. Your medical texts will place a great deal of weight upon this event, though I argue it has no more or less weight than any of these other factors, not until people afford it that. Continuing on, you have the pronouncement of your parents. No doubt a midwife, as well. All these adults declared that you were in fact a boy. As you grew up, your clothes also told this story, and I imagine your childhood friends and sweethearts helped, too. You were raised and schooled according to this, and you still live by it today, in everything from the manner in which you walk, to your taste for gambling and frequenting unsavory pubs. Together, this stunning array of data is represented by but one word, and that word is man."

Watson shifts forward, letting their clasped hands drop to Holmes's knee. "Please, go on."

Holmes shifts, and the light catches on his cufflink. It's probably a worthless trinket, but it gleams like jet in the evening air. He looks impossibly, painfully handsome, his features shrouded in God knows what thoughts, his shoulders hunched forward against the seam of his dinner jacket. His body seems more neatly arranged than usual, not its standard haphazard array of limbs and spilling fabric. If he were a musical interval, he'd be an augmented seventh, Watson thinks, almost the bell tones of an octave but not quite, a little more ethereal, a little more wild.

"When I spoke of your childhood," Holmes says finally, "I said that I imagined it to be so. This is because my own childhood experiences were rather different. What I am rather inarticulately, I'll allow, trying to say, is that my own equation for becoming a man was rather different from yours. While I hope you'll agree that I am most certainly a man, thanks to the variety of factors that say so, my fear is that your mind will change once I tell you exactly what my process of becoming a man entailed." Holmes frowns in frustration. He's not good at having to think before he speaks, usually these things are worked out long before he begins to talk about them. This has the look of a problem he's worried at for a great while, though.

"No matter what sort of man you are," Watson says quietly, "I shall be just as besotted with you as I was before."

"Take care, John, you do not know what you promise," Holmes says, and it's almost a whisper.

"Then tell me," Watson says. "I don't like to see you so discomfited."

"Will you close your eyes?" Holmes asks, a little roughly. "I fear that I'm the sort of man whose visage tricks the eye."

"I'll gladly close my eyes," Watson says, "If by doing so I shall see you all the better."

"I believe that you shall," Holmes says, and lifts his hand where it's still intertwined with Watson's shifting so that his palm rests over Watson's knuckles. "Steady on, now," he says, and presses both their hands to his collarbone. "Please have patience," he adds, and his voice sounds a little broken, a little raw. He presses Watson's hand downward, just a fraction.

The gradual slide continues for what could be moments or years. It's almost unbearable, the expanse of smooth skin that Watson can feel but cannot see. When his palm first brushes against the linen, he mistakes it for Holmes's shirt. The sensation is accompanied by a swift intake of breath, and then, as his hand continues downward, he realizes it's not a shirt at all. It's pulled taut around Holmes's body, and it wraps several times around; he can feel the separate ridges of the layers.

In a flash of insight he understands, medical texts, whispered tales, linen bindings, and a strange warmth in the pit of his stomach all coalescing into Sherlock Holmes. All these things make a man, he thinks. But so many other things can, too, and none of these things feel dangerous, or sacrosanct. They're all just fleeting moments, arranged into one pattern or another. Like notes on a staff, each note lending itself to countless scales, arpeggios, chords, inversions. Not one of them is any better or worse than the others. The realization is overwhelming, and Watson opens his eyes on Holmes's gaze. His eyes are shuttered, his chin tilted up toward where Watson is leaned over in the armchair, his hand still resting gently on Holmes's chest.

"My dear fellow," Watson says finally. "No one has ever before allowed me to see the world in such a simply extraordinary manner as you do. It is but one of the ways in which you've stolen my heart, however I believe it to be the most compelling. I find your logic quite infallible, and though I suspect this not to be the most opportune time, I would be quite honored to hear your own tale of growing to manhood, now that you have so easily told mine. I'm most pleased by your trust," he adds, "And by your patience. I, on the other hand, am finding myself to be less and less of a patient man, and so I would be much obliged if you would kiss me again."

Holmes is up in an instant, his motions as sure and graceful as always. "My dear doctor," he says, "Are you quite certain about this? What about Mary?"

"It's a sad thing to have so wretchedly misused someone," Watson says softly. "I'm not at all proud of it. I shall have to break off the engagement tomorrow, and if you feel my continued presence in this lodging would be tolerable, I suppose I would require your assistance in retrieving my luggage."

"I believe that can be arranged," Holmes says, and his tone is the lightest it's been all night. "If you'll kiss me now, Doctor Watson?"

"I could think of nothing better," he replies, and because he's so pleased he'll be near enough to say it for a great while longer, adds, "Mr. Holmes."