As I sit here, with the latest edition of the Strand
before
me, attempting to sift through far more separate and tumultuous
feelings than I care to encounter at once, I find I must allow myself
to reflect methodically. So I shall do just that.
And begin at the
beginning, as I steadfastly recommend to others. But where
did it
begin, and at what precise moment did the match touch the
fuse? It is
all very well to say "begin at the beginning," but
some origins
are truer than others, and painful subjects often not broached unless
broached obliquely. Ah, yes. The night it truly
commenced, I was
climbing the stairs.
I cannot recall ever having felt so exhausted.
As my friend the Doctor would point out all too readily, that is
precisely the problem--I may well be exhausted, I
may even be flirting dangerously with complete loss of consciousness,
but when my brain is preoccupied, I do not feel
it. I know as well as he does that when my mind is sifting
difficult,
perplexing, contradictory, obscure data that the rest of me becomes
quite as relevant as wings would be to a brook trout. What he
does not
know, and what I cannot tell him, is that I adore the sensation.
Oh,
there are many other sensations I cherish more fondly, to be sure--and
all, predictably, centered around the endlessly estimable person of the
Doctor himself. But before he was mine, the closest thing to
Heaven
for me was the moment when my intellect became purely, passionately
detached, the moment when I knew that reason, and my
reason at
that, would once again win out, the split second before all was as
clear to me as if I had seen it. In those isolated instants,
I could
feel that there was no one in the wide world who was more adept at this
one skill than I was. I grew glittering and razor-sharp and
entirely
free of myself. In those instants, I could convince myself I
was
needed. Not appreciated, perhaps, and certainly not loved,
but needed.
I'm afraid the experience did not cease to be intoxicating after Watson
and I expanded our relations.
Turning
my key in the door lock, I staggered up the stairs to our
rooms. It
had been an investigation tailored for solo work; Watson could not
possibly have helped me, for I had spent more than three quarters of my
time masquerading as other people, trailing appalling villains
throughout Rotherhithe. I had finally discovered the hidden
and
alarming connection between the brutal stabbing of a young public house
hostess and the depraved gang which until an hour previous had haunted
the banks of the Thames, smuggling for profit and killing for
pleasure. It seems after reading back over this sentence that
I
exaggerate, but sadly, I do not. The world is not a kind
place, I have
found.
The Doctor, bless him, had inquired whether I wouldn't
prefer to have him there. Much as I missed his company, I
preferred to
have him anywhere else. And I told him as much. My
argument was
couched in terms of efficiency and not peril, a condition Watson is
alarmingly willing to stick his neck into. Sharply, I
objected to the
very real possibility of his ruining my cover. I then
pointedly
mentioned the all too real demands which hospitals make upon talented
doctors in the wintertime. To my relief, he did as I said.
But
now I was freezing, and filthy, and I loathe being filthy, and my very
bones ached, and the Yarders were scribbling their paperwork and my
dark puzzle was solved, and what my friend calls the Reaction--always
with an implied capital letter--was causing my eyes to sting and my
hands to tremble as I closed the sitting room door and slumped back
against it.
I lost no time in getting myself out of those
disgusting garments and into a hot bath, which salved my preoccupation
with hygiene if not my weariness. There was river mud on my
arms and
collarbone and shoulders, and rivulets of sweat had carried the muck
down to my washboard of a stomach. Thoroughly repulsed, I
scrubbed my
familiar form with surgical precision. Leaning back with a
sigh, my
eyes fell shut. I had barely the strength to rise when the
water began
to cool. Putting on a shirt and trousers, I returned to the
blissfully
warm sitting room just to ascertain whether my friend had returned from
St. Bart's.
The room was quite dark save for the fire, for I'd
lit none of the lamps. The windows were frosted over at the
edges.
They smelled faintly of the winter without. My friend's desk
was
covered with papers, one of which I lifted blearily. It was a
draft of
one of my own cases, sadly over-dramatized as was his wont.
Also, as
was gravely necessary, our relations were reduced to heartily jovial
back-clapping and the occasional darting smile. Very much the
usual, I
mused absently.
When I stumbled upon a description of my own
hands, however, and some of their more peculiar characteristics, I
found myself blushing furiously. Thank God he is
not here, I thought. You look like a
half-witted society girl whose figure has just been admired. I'm
damnably vain where he is concerned, and I know it. And of
all the
details he could have fixated upon without any regard for sense, I
quite like my hands. Apparently my "long yet supple fingers"
had been
"cradling" a thick length of rope with my "habitually profound delicacy
of touch." A thick length of rope, of all things. I
thought it best
to return the page to its place.
The Doctor himself was not
there. But the fire was blazing, and the rug had absorbed
some of its
heat. And the door to my room, ten steps behind me, suddenly
seemed
very, very far away.
I mentioned before that
there are a few select sensations which are wholly preferable to that
of intellectual triumph. One of them is awakening because
John Watson
is kissing you.
My eyes remained closed. I'd have been a
wasteful fool to open them quickly. I buried myself instead
in the
scent and the feel of him, slowly moving my hands. He had
thrown off
his frock coat and draped himself on top of me in his shirtsleeves and
a silk waistcoat, resting most of his weight on his good
shoulder. I
gripped his thick, solid upper arms. Then I balled the cotton
of his
shirt in my fist at the curve of his lower back. What more
could I
savour without sight, I wondered as my consciousness slowly
returned.
The back of his hands and neck told me sleet had begun to fall in the
street beyond. But only just, or else he'd taken a
cab. No, the
slight moisture would have been only on his hands and not his neck had
he used his umbrella, so he'd hailed a hansom and been caught in the
wet on his way to the door. It was nearing ten o'clock at
night,
judging by the slight stubble on his face. He had only very
recently
arrived, I registered as my mouth fell open further, for his fine
muscled torso was warm but his lips were still cold--a fact I set about
remedying for him as I tilted my head and abandoned myself to the
aching feeling that life only gives one a small, finite number of
flawless moments, and that I'd just spent yet another. And in
my case,
that I didn't entirely merit the ones I'd already received.
That
forced my bloodshot eyes open as he drew away at last, causing a
mirrored look of worry in the Doctor's staggeringly blue ones.
Ah,
there he was. Five feet nine inches of brown-haired,
solidly-built,
Adonis-featured, kindhearted perfection. If Adonis had been
unmistakably square-jawed and Scottish in origin and his manners were
military, I suppose.
"Are you all right?" he inquired in that calm, sure voice of his.
He
was not expecting me to reply that I was terrifyingly lucky and that I
had never in the slightest expected to be faring nearly so well as I
was, and so I told him I was fine.
"You look ridiculous," he said fondly.
"Why? Because I am splayed on our rug like a piece of
driftwood?"
"No."
He ran the edge of his hand down the side of my face, and it was all I
could do not to follow it with my cheek like a comfort-starved street
cat. I managed with an effort to preserve my
dignity. "Half your hair
has dried, and is falling straight out from your head. The
half nearer
the fire. The other half is yet damp, and beginning to curl
at the
ends."
I brushed my hand through what must have been a bad mess. "I
thought you liked my hair."
"And why did you suppose that?" he murmured, smiling.
"I deduced it, actually."
"From
my touching it whenever I can, I suppose." He nodded
gravely. "You
were right. It's very striking, black as it is. And
in general, very
well groomed. I have never seen it quite so chaotic as now,
however."
"I'll fix it, if you like."
"I shall only disarrange it again," he said.
Then
he was kissing me once more, my fingertips playing scales upon his
vertebrae, and suddenly I could no longer breathe. I
reflected, and
not for the first time either, on what a precarious knife's edge I
lived. The edge I balanced to keep the Doctor fascinated by
my cases,
an audience to my finest assets, and yet not present for the
potentially deadly ones. The time I spent maintaining a
perfect
semblance of control, at least partly so that I could artfully abandon
it as a last resort. The care it required for me to remain
coolly
indifferent enough to Watson's presence that he didn't mistake me for
the thousand other grovelling fools who worshiped him. The
pains I
took to keep his inquisitive mind guessing, without ever toying with
him, for the thought of losing him by revealing too much of my dark,
sad self made me an abject coward.
The thought of losing him in
still worse ways was enough to bring on symptoms that I'd read in one
of his medical texts resembled a heart attack.
"I take it you resolved your case?" he asked when I laughingly stopped
to gasp for air. I was yet feeling deucedly dizzy.
"Yes. The gang are all in custody."
"Gang?"
The
trouble with perfect moments, apart from the fact that they end, is
that they all too often end badly. Or perhaps I am just
unforgivably
stupid.
"The Yard has them all in tow," I assured him. I used my
calming voice. It works wonders on occasion.
"Do
you mind telling me just what the devil you think you were doing
capturing a gang without so much as warning me that I had best be
terribly worried if you didn't arrive home this evening?"
He was
angry. In fact, he was very angry. Only when he is
very angry does he
adopt a tone so clipped and cold, for all the world as if he were me.
I
knew where every ounce of the blame could be attributed for the
wretched situation, too. It all had to do with that damnable
business
of the Greek Interpreter.
We had only two weeks before crossed a
foeman worthy of our steel--a laughing, vile, unbalanced little villain
whose machinations had killed the man we intended to save, and would
have killed Mr. Melas had I arrived but a few minutes later.
That was
not the memory which haunted my nightmares, however.
"I shall pick up Mr. Melas on the way," the Doctor had said to
me. I recall every last word. "We may need an
interpreter."
"Excellent," I had replied. "Send the boy for a four-wheeler,
and we shall be off at once."
"Holmes,
we may well require the assistance of the official police," he had
observed. "Do you drive quick as you can to Scotland Yard and
find
Lestrade or Gregson, and meet me at The Myrtles. I shan't do
anything
alone, I promise you--but supposing this unfortunate brother may be
close to death, it would be wise for me to keep a guard of sorts until
you arrive."
And so Dr. Watson had gone on ahead to do what he
could whilst I had waited, chafing and pacing and shouting and nearly
coming to blows with Gregson (inept fool that he is), for the arrival
of the warrant. Never again. Never again.
Never again, I vow by all that I hold dear, I vow by the Doctor
himself, will I give tuppence for a warrant.
How many people, I wonder, have ever seen a man who has been poisoned
by charcoal?
His
face already looked swollen as a drowned corpse. His lips
were blue as
death, blue nearly as his eyes, which were open and staring and
insensible. I had hurled the brazen tripod into the garden
without a
second thought, gasping for breath though I was, and then vaguely, as I
carried him from the poisoned room, I realized that an officer had
opened another window at the top of the stairs. I set my
beloved
burden on the floor and bent over him. I had physically
thrown myself
into the house, smashing and then diving through a glass pane, and the
cut on my palm dripped red blood onto his white face. Mr.
Melas was in
a similar state, though I did not mark him as Gregson dragged his inert
body into the hall. The brother, of course, the emaciated
gargoyle
with the sticking plaster upon his face, was stone dead.
How to
describe it? How to relate what it is like when your world is
crumbling round you, and all you can find to piece it back together
again are ammonia and a flask of brandy? I was pleading with
him to
come back to me, though now I think about it once more, I only chanted
the word please over and over again.
Mingled with his name. How to fathom all I felt when he saw
me, truly saw me, and began again to breathe on his
own?
The
Doctor can recall arriving at Mr. Melas' door at the same time as the
smiling little fiend. He recalls perfectly well being herded
into a
chamber and then, realizing their intended fate, commanding all inside
to lie flat before the crack of the door and breathe as shallowly as
was possible. The dear heart remembers nothing whatever of
being
saved, my part in it, and my sad lack of propriety or discretion,
before awakening in the carriage once more as we flew back to the train
station.
The only reason Gregson lived to tell the tale was
that he undoubtedly saved Mr. Melas, for I spared the interpreter not
an instant's concern, God forgive me. That reason, and the
fact that
he could easily have laughed at the white-faced wreck of a consulting
detective he helped into the four-wheeler, but instead only pressed my
arm in silence and offered me a deeply apologetic little salute before
returning to The Myrtles and the Greek who'd been tortured to
death. I
hadn't even responded. I was too preoccupied with the barely
breathing
ex-Army medic in my arms.
And now that same man was positively livid that I had gone to
Rotherhithe alone.
"Watson,
you completely misread the situation," I announced. "There
was never
any legitimate concern over safety. It was not even a
challenging
case, come to that."
"And that is why you have now fallen dead
from exhaustion and hunger before our sitting room fire, not having had
the strength to make it to--was it your desk or your bed?"
I
opened my mouth, but to my dismay he pushed himself off me with his
hands. I sat up along with him as if a rope tied us together,
seeing
kaleidoscopic stars at the effort. Beginning to fall back, I
caught
myself with one palm. I was aghast at such a display of my
own
weakness, and I vehemently willed the dizzy spell away, forcing myself
to be calm. When I could see him again, he was shaking his
head at
me. The expression most visible was fury. Beneath
that ran palpable
hurt.
"Did you eat today?"
"Is that truly the most interesting question you can
muster at the close of my investigation, Watson?" I snapped wearily.
"So you did not. How many armed thugs did you apprehend
singlehandedly, Holmes?"
"Your
logic is very seriously flawed. It is a predictably absurd
assumption
that simply because I failed to invite you to Rotherhithe this evening,
I was callow enough to attempt the resolution alone. I was
entirely
safe. Lestrade and three officers accompanied me."
That had
done it. I was trying to reassure him, but he winced as if
I'd just
uttered the most infamous of slanders. Too late, I realized
my
mistake, and cursed myself for it. He supposed I was
recalling The
Myrtles, rightly. He supposed I thought him a weakling and a
liability, wrongly. And the man looked as if I'd thrown him
out on the
streets.
I know that my thoroughly weakened state made my sins
feel still worse than they were, but nevertheless in that moment it
felt as if I spent my time casually wounding John Watson every day,
twice when I'd nothing better to do. To be truthful, I found
myself in
that guilty position heartbreakingly often, for all that I would gladly
have signed up to be tortured upon a rack to prevent him coming to any
harm. There was a single human being in the world whose
happiness and
continued well-being I valued above my life, and no man in that same
world could hurt him as cruelly as I could. The irony was not
lost
upon me.
"I didn't want you there," I said swiftly. It was obvious,
yes. But he would next ask me why.
"But why, Holmes?"
"I
know you to be exhausted from your work at the hospital as it is, and I
could not justify placing yet another burden on your shoulders."
"Your cases are a burden on me?"
In
my defense, I fail so miserably only when at the end of my
tether. The
world was still spinning visibly, though I flat-out refused to show
it. "I promise you that it would only have been a tiresome
waste of
your resources, my dear fellow."
"Then you are lying," he said,
his voice dropping to a dull whisper, "as opposed to merely not
trusting me enough to disclose the whole truth."
He was moving
to get up, but I gripped him by the wrist. There is only one
way out
of a corner such as the one I had backed myself into, and that is
admitting my own folly. "I trust you absolutely."
"You do not
show it well. Or often. I am beginning to think
that may never
change, as sad as that admission makes me. And if it never
does
change, then I am beginning to wonder what I shall do."
He
pulled away from me again and shifted to his knees so that he might
rise without the use of his bad arm. His undisguised
woundedness made
my already pained eyes burn. Clearly, I was in it to the
hilt, and the
time had come for desperate measures to be taken.
"I trust you more deeply than you'll ever know, my dear fellow."
"That may be true, unfortunately."
"John Watson, I cannot and will not risk you in the pursuit of
inconsequential brutes."
"Indeed? And for that reason chased down a Rotherhithe
gang in my absence?" he answered frigidly, continuing to
rise.
"Well,
I also feared you may have been exhausted by the efforts of the night,
and thus miss the small excursion I had planned for us tomorrow
afternoon."
I allowed my heartfelt inner turmoil to appear on my
face, if only a little. That can be very effective.
I employ the
eyes, primarily, and the set of my lips. It is essentially
the
opposite of acting, and I am rather adept at the technique.
Allowing
him glimpses of my mind plays upon his generosity, I know, but I was
past caring. I had to be permitted to make it up to
him.
The
Doctor stopped, but he would not trust himself to reply. I
slid
forward, still seated, and placed my fingertips very gently at his
waist. "That is, if you would do me the distinct honour of
accompanying me."
"Accompanying you where?"
"The Diogenes Club."
"What the devil is the Diogenes Club?"
"One
of the queerest in London, I assure you. No," I added,
laughing, "not
that sort of club. It is a club for deeply unclubbable men
who
nevertheless have no objection to comfortable chairs and the latest
periodicals, for which I can hardly blame them. I myself have
found
its atmosphere very soothing. Please say you'll come, my dear
chap. I
cannot exaggerate the importance of your joining me."
He took my
hands in his and removed them, placing them emphatically on my own lap
as he sat down on the floor again. He fixed me with a very
suspicious
stare. "And why should I wish to follow you to a club for the
unclubbable?"
"To meet my brother."
And there it was. Small wonder I had saved that one in
reserve for so long, for I had never so completely stunned him.
"Your brother?" he repeated, entirely shocked.
This is very bad, I thought, and only
growing worse.
Now I would in fact be forced to introduce my lover to my
sibling. I
do not mean to imply that I lack regard for either one of
them.
However, the merest thought of them in the same room--
"Is he your junior?" Watson inquired at last, his brows still
reflecting his astonishment.
"Seven years my senior."
"What is his name?"
"Mycroft Holmes. My parents had an alarming sense of humour,
as you have probably guessed already."
"Your full brother, you say?"
"Born of the selfsame parents as your very humble servant."
"And you never thought to speak of him before now."
"We
are not intimate. That is, we are, but the more social
manifestations
of our regard are lacking." I thought I'd managed that rather
nicely.
"Well,
now I know you have a brother, I am at least grateful you are not
estranged," he said distantly. "I need hardly remind you I
was not so
lucky."
"That was never your fault," I argued. "It was Fate and
bitter circumstance."
"We were strangers. And yet, antagonists. That was
not all his doing."
"Correct.
It was at least partly your father's," I said dryly. "My
brother and I
are not strangers, and yet we have come as close to blows in our
younger days as anyone. We know one another far too well, you
will
find, to be entirely peaceable. Mycroft is...disturbingly
perceptive.
I am little better."
"So," he summed up softly, "you were making
an effort to save my strength so that I would have the fortitude to
face your brother--whom you have never so much as mentioned to me in
passing--on the morrow. As I little know what to expect, I
suppose he
is nothing at all like you."
"In spirit, he is very like me, actually," I sighed.
"I
doubt that. However 'perceptive' he may be, your faculty of
observation and your peculiar facility for deduction are surely due to
your own systematic training."
"Would that they were."
My head began to spin again. It was not a convenient
moment. I tried to blink it away.
"Sherlock
Holmes," the Doctor said quietly, his gallant countenance quite
breathtaking in the firelight, "I am about to say a number of things to
you. Pray wait to respond until I am finished."
I nodded, focusing on my torso remaining vertical. It seemed
best.
Watson's
eyes were shining like clear lakes. As he spoke, he quite
unselfconsciously removed his cravat and began loosening his
collar.
"I am extremely angry that you would venture upon a perilous case
without telling me. You were right to think I would have been
present
had I known of it, but that is hardly an excuse. I am also
appalled
that you would lie to me about the all too obvious reasons you wished
me away. I may have nearly suffocated, but that does not mean
I fail
to recollect the event, you know."
"I--"
"Holmes."
Oh, what a dangerous tone.
"I
am equally amused and flattered that you should attempt to distract me
with so drastic a measure as meeting your brother, and very thankful
for it to boot, but please do not think you have fooled me.
You wished
me at the hospital this evening not in spite of grave danger but
because of it, and the event had nothing in the slightest to do with
your family, as surprising as their existence may be."
The
cravat was gone, the collar thrown out of my field of vision.
His eyes
were dimming visibly once more as he began on his waistcoat and shirt
buttons. And of course, the fault was mine. I
thought frantically of
a way to light them again, but something in his sweet, injured,
terribly determined face stopped me from speaking. That, and
the fact
I hadn't the least notion what he was doing.
"I am only going to
ask you a single question. How would you react if I continued
work at
the hospital every day in the throes of an outbreak of virulent typhus,
disease running wild through the wards, and yet said nothing to you
whatever of the potentially deadly risk?"
A cold, nauseating grip seized my heart of hearts. "Is
there--"
"There
is not." He pulled his muscled arms free, forever slightly
browned by
the desert sun. "But you are about to be taught a lesson."
I opened my lips to ask what lesson, but found I hadn't the breath for
the project.
"How dare you?" he hissed furiously, an inch from my face.
"How
dare you suppose you are not as precious to me as I am to you?"
I
ought to state here that sex had used to be a very simple affair for
me. I am not conventionally handsome by any means--I cannot
claim to
possess any measure of my Watson's glowing good looks, of that I am all
too well aware. I rather resemble a very badly fed vampire,
and often
wonder whether or not the Doctor is actually aware of that
fact. But
because I have cultivated a cynical, aloof variety of charm, and
perhaps because I am at least strikingly tall, I have never wanted for
a casual partner. I had used to think that was quite enough,
and would
be for all time. The libido, after all, is identical to the
appetite
for sleep or for food: it may be a nuisance, but ignore it for long
enough and one can find oneself making very poor decisions.
So I
treated the desire for carnal intimacy as I did all other desires and
subjugated it. When I chose to indulge it, I did so, as with
my bread
and water and repose, and that was the be-and-end-all.
Simplicity
itself, really. Ten minutes sitting in a obscure corner of
the Turkish
baths with my towel arranged just so, and I would find a head between
my lean legs. I never bothered with names, although I know
for a fact
that once or twice the eager mouth belonged to the same
fellow. He
would leave, whoever he was, and I would depart soon after, once more
in firm control. If I needed more than that, the identical
chaps were
more than eager to lead me to a private chamber and allow me my way
with their flesh. I was never wholly selfish. I
would finish them by
hand and leave, and I imagine they would depart soon after.
Mutual
benefit once more--their loss of control, my regaining of it.
Very
rarely, I required loss of my own control. That meant
slightly more
effort, particularly if the morphine was running through my veins and I
felt strange and haunted and self-destructive. And it could
find me in
the pitch dark with my brow and palms pressed flat against an alley's
brick wall like a starving rent boy, biting my own lip so hard I could
see the bloodied cuts in the morning. He would hand me a
handkerchief
and restore his opera gloves or his uniform trousers and leave, whoever
he was. And I would depart soon after, feeling somehow myself
again,
and far less alone for having been used. Simple.
With the Doctor, sex is very complicated.
I
am watching the smallest expressions that flow past his face, and
shifting tactics accordingly. When his brows crease, when his
lips
part, when his hands clench, I am always watching. I am an
instrument
for his pleasure. Oh, I am yet commanding and strong-willed,
and to be
sure I am the one in control. But that is because, oddly, I
can get
the most striking results from him that way. Though every
inch a man,
he wants me at the reins. And I do what he wants. I
happen to love
the fellow quite beyond reason. If he cried my name so when I
was
mellow and supine, I think I should gladly spend my life bent over the
arm of the settee with my own riding crop resting conveniently on my
back. As it is, I am the master. At least, until
the passion strikes
me so deeply that I am breaking into pieces within him and have
forgotten who I am entirely, except that I am his. And I'm
afraid when
things have gone that far, there's not a thing I can do about it save
shatter apart.
But in general, I do my best to be fairly
domineering. My soul isn't beautiful, as his is.
Power at times seems
to be all that I possess.
That is why I was startled (do please take note for the future
that your reflexes are bloody useless when you feel this way, there's a
more cautious fellow,
I thought caustically to myself) when he gripped me quite roughly by
the shirt and crushed his lips to mine again, taking my mouth like an
invading army. I cannot say I disliked the feeling.
I was yet
seated, and he had edged back to me on his knees, so it took him but
one movement to swing his leg over mine and sit on my thighs.
My hands
came up to his jawline and he stopped kissing me. When he
pulled back,
his blue eyes were flaming. He took both my wrists in his
hands and
twisted them round behind my back. I am very, very strong in
the
torso, but I found to my shock that in that position, in that moment,
he was supporting me. Violently, he kissed me again, his hot
mouth
moving down to my neck, and when I snaked one of my hands free, he
shoved me straight to the floor.
When I grasped him by the arms, rising to meet him, he pushed me easily
back down to the rug, and (for
Heaven's sake, you've drained yourself entirely too far this time, you
pathetic idiot, what if some vengeful lunatic had arrived to murder us
in our beds and you--) then his hands tore my shirt away and
I was
already drowning and it had barely begun, and I suddenly realized with
a strong flash of instinctual panic that I truly could not shake his
grip from my shoulders.
Then I was fighting back, and in
earnest. I hadn't any control over it. I felt
everything that was
wrong with my own body and cursed myself for the weakening of it, until
I heard myself gasp when the Doctor slammed my crossed wrists against
the floor once more, very roughly, above my head. "Don't," I
begged
him, my voice nearly breaking. "Please don't. Let
go of me."
"Stop," he ordered.
He
didn't sound at all gentle, but then he looked into my face and sat
back, very deliberately and pointedly letting go of me.
"You're going
to stop," he said far more softly. It was still a command,
however.
"Now, please give me your hands. Or else you can go."
He could
have easily captured them a second time himself, but I suppose he
wanted my permission so as to know I would not careen into all-out
hysteria. I did as he said. He reached behind him
and found his own
cravat. Bending down, he tied my wrists before my eyes with
the strip
of cloth as I lay on my back, tight as ever he could, and with another
rush of what was almost fear, I realized that he knew what he was
doing, and my hands were secure, and there was not one damned thing I
could do about it, and he could see as much in my eyes.
I am not
afraid of John Watson. I have never been, and I could never
be, save
for the loss of him. The man is a saint. And he
loves me--at least, I
thought possibly he had loved me. So I
was not afraid of what he might do to my person. But I was
screaming bloody terrified
that he had seen me, would reduce me, had ever ever ever witnessed me
in such a sorry state. I knew well enough what parts of me
were
admirable: they were calm and intellect and strength and control and
self-possession.
And all of them had fled.
Short work
he made of the few remaining clothes we wore. Short work of
noting
where all the scant blood in my body had pooled, no doubt, for it was
practically aching by that time. I am not small by any
standards, and
being ravished by a beautiful Hercules is hardly against my instinctive
tastes. Short work leaving me, and returning from my
bedroom. Short
work slowly preparing, as he kissed my stomach, from the edges of my
hips to the shivering muscled knots of my abdomen as I repeated over
and over to myself calm, calm, calm, calm, calm.
Then I
gasped audibly at the true beginning of it, and he lowered himself on
his arms very carefully above me, his shoulder causing him an
exhalation of considerable pain, of course, which was one of the
reasons we never made love face to face in that particular way, even
when he did take me, and I waited for him to move. He did not.
"Open your eyes."
I'll see pity, I thought. And
I'll have him for tonight.
And then he'll leave.
Seeing that pity would ruin me, and I knew it, but I did as he asked.
His eyes were still wetly glimmering. Still blue.
Still--beyond the bounds of human comprehension--in love.
"How can you want me this way?"
I
didn't say it, so much as gasp it in an inaudible, tiny, whispered
breath. It was an inner protest outside the range of human
hearing,
and thus I know that what he said to me next was not a reply, but a vow.
"I'll make you understand if it's the last thing I do," he said.
Then
he did move. And move very well indeed, as he is quite
practiced at
the art. I prefer never to think of the fellows he'd been
practicing on
prior to our meeting, but unmistakably they existed, as they had for
me. I bit back a cry with my teeth, as I always do.
And I was so
maddened at being unable to grip something that my head would have
thrashed against the floor if he hadn't caught it. I could
feel
minuscule tears of exhaustion at the edges of my eyes and prayed to the
God who'd never once listened to me in all my life that at the very
least I could keep them in check. I fought like a maddened
tiger on
that count. But predictably, He didn't listen to
me. And in lieu of
gripping something, anything for God's sake, I
moved my bound
hands up to my friend's face. That was probably the moment I
understood that I was far stupider than I'd ever imagined being, and
that for some miraculous reason he was willing to forgive me for it.
It
is impossible to chart just when it ended. Five minutes
later,
perhaps? Eight? After I'd failed utterly to remain
silent. After
he'd buried his face in my neck. After I'd pressed his head
where it
lay in the crook of my shoulder, awkwardly, with my wrists. I
finished
first, I believe, dragging him with me.
I cannot think why that
would have been, for he was supporting his own weight in what must have
been ghastly pain and hadn't touched me. Except perhaps that
I finally
let myself go.
At some point, he released me,
threw my arm over his shoulder, and deposited me clean and safe and
warm in my own bed. I was by then far too delirious to recall
it. I
think it was only twenty or so minutes later when I awoke fully, under
the coverlet. He was next to me, watching me with an
affectionately
quirked expression on his lips. There was a water glass in
his hand,
which he passed to me.
"Tell me about your brother," he suggested.
Oh, God.
"Hmm.
He is...tall," I answered. The water was no longer cold, but
none the
less refreshing for that. I set the empty glass on the
bedside table.
It is amazing what twenty minutes of sleep can do for me.
"Does he look like you?"
"No."
"Well, he must look like you in some ways."
"He
looks like five of me," I retorted. "The hereditary
characteristics
you assume to be present are obscured. You'd hardly mark
them. Not if
you didn't know me rather well."
"In what sense?"
"Well, our eyes are very peculiar, and in the same fashion."
"Your eyes are beautiful."
"My
blushes, Watson." They aren't. They are an eerie
shade of pale grey,
and make me look even more weird and wicked than I already
do. But I
am heartily grateful he thinks so.
"Does he know--"
"Yes."
I
thought back over the experience of having grown up with a sibling who
was not only seven years older and wiser, and thus far ahead of me in
learning, but who could also determine a fellow's darkest secrets at a
single glance. It had not seemed entirely fair. One
of the boys who
had slept in our stables guarding the horses and sweeping the stalls
had been charming at seven, and yet bearable at fourteen, but when
sixteen struck him along with an increase in muscle mass and jaw
definition, I was entirely besotted. Once I had recognized my
dilemma,
it was far too late. It was also too late to hide the problem
from my
brother. A man whose mind is so razor-keen he can solve the
most
abstruse of riddles can easily spot an untimely adolescent erection,
not to mention draw appropriate conclusions as to the source.
I was
undone before I myself knew I was queer.
"But my dear man," the Doctor persisted, "does he specifically know--"
"He
will when he lays eyes on us," I replied gently. "Are you
comfortable
with that? You could go alone and he may not see it, as he
has not
when I have visited him solo in the past. But should we
appear
together--as I plan to do, my dear chap--yes, he will know."
"Then by all means let us go together," he smiled.
Heavens
above, it was hideous. As much as I was accustomed to being
twitted
over the differences between commissioned and non-commissioned
officers, theory and speculation, Jack Tars and privateers, being
twitted over Watson was a daunting prospect. I wondered for a
moment
whether I hoped Mycroft would not like him, that I might be defiant, or
that he would like him very much, so that I might be even more
horrified when he set in to pester me upon the subject.
What a magnificent type!
he would say teasingly of the Doctor, not knowing of course that John
Watson defies all types. Or in genuine surprise at my
audacity at
choosing a man several miles out of my league How bold of
you, Sherlock. I should have suspected you to be a little out
of your depth in such matters. No, the moment my
friend was out of sight, he would wink fondly at me and drawl I
see you have changed everything, Sherlock, quite rearranged your
life--and here I thought you content with your usual petty puzzles of
the police-court. Why on earth didn't you tell me you were
happy
months ago? You needn't have come by--a simple wire would
have done
it, you know. You are quite altered, my dear boy. And
every word would be true.
"As you like," I said. "So long as you know secrets cannot be
kept from him."
"Have I been a secret, then?"
"A spell," I murmured slowly. "A bewitchment. A
charm that could shatter if spoken aloud."
"Can I be so ethereal by comparison?"
"Everyone is. He weighs over twenty stone."
He
thought for a moment, the edges of his moustache hinting at more smiles
to come. "Did you truly think I would drop it if you revealed
his
existence?"
"No," I said readily. "I desired an interlude of
transcendent sex, and thought that was the most effective way to bring
it about. The results, as you will acknowledge yourself, were
admirable. I appreciate your having fallen in so completely
with my
designs."
"If those were your designs, I will at once own their
merits." He was teasing me, but only gently. Then
something arrested
his attention and a drawn, grave look appeared on his face.
Looking
down, I saw the back of one of my wrists was beginning to bruise, and
rather badly. It was darkening and swelling
simultaneously. The
binding had not done me any harm, for he'd been very careful, but
striking the floorboards beyond the expanse of rug had.
"Oh my--"
"Never mind, my dear, dear fellow," I said quickly, having entirely
recovered my calm. "That happened at the docks."
"No, it didn't," he whispered in dismay. "It happened just
now. I did it."
"You're
being ridiculous. I knocked it against the carriage door
during a very
minor round of fisticuffs, I promise you," I lied.
He was
already out of bed, striding to his medical kit in the sitting room
beyond. I watched him go without the slightest tremor of
shame
striking me--it is not particularly often that the Doctor wanders from
place to place sans clothing, for he is rather more
modest than
I am (without any logical cause whatsoever), and though I regretted his
distress, the opportunity was too precious to be dismissed.
His lumbar
curve brings me nearly to tears. I believe the man insists
upon
dressing gowns merely to vex me, at times. The return view
was equally
breathtaking, as he sat down once more in the firelit bedroom with a
jar of liniment and a strip of linen.
He took my hand, running exquisitely gentle fingers over it.
"I am so truly sorry."
"What on earth for? You are neither a gang member nor a--"
"Thank
God," he breathed as he completed his assessment. "At least I
did not
break anything. You are the dearest, the most--and I adore
your hands
so. I was angered, very deeply angered, and I wanted you to
know it.
Some terrible part of me needed to show you. Still, I'm
ashamed of
myself. This is a wretched thing for a doctor--"
"Carriage door--"
"To have done, no matter how lost I felt."
"It
doesn't make any difference how you felt, as it was a carriage
door!
An even if it had been your doing, I've sustained far worse damage
during hedonistic interludes," I said truthfully, then
stopped. He
does not like to hear such things. Small wonder, too.
"Please
forgive me. Can you try, at least? I am every bit
as frightened as
you are, you know, you must know that," he added soberly, in a rush.
"Of what could you be afraid?" I asked him.
"Of not being enough for you."
I
did not quite know what to make of that. It touched me
deeply,
although the fact he'd read me so well was also rather
mortifying. I
tried to think of a suitably reassuring sentiment that did not either
make him seem foolish or myself seem childishly infatuated.
But
suddenly I realized I was too exhausted for artifice.
"I cannot conceive of you fearing such a thing," I whispered.
He
laughed as he gently wrapped my hand. "My love, you have a
profound
effect upon those around you, from ticket-takers and scullery maids to
the hereditary King of Bohemia. You are a genius in your
chosen field,
and doubtless would have been equally successful at any
other. The
merest fact that I receive such a large degree of your focus, of your
powerfully intent time and attention, is at times very surprising to
me. I am a battle-scarred pensioner, and count myself quite
lucky."
The
scar is very jagged, and raised in places, and reminds me of a
sickening flower, where the all too soft-nosed Jezail bullet pierced
his shoulder. He doesn't like it, for he finds it ugly and it
reminds
him of horrors I only hear about when murmured in his sleep.
I have a
more complex relationship with it. It is bravery and
self-sacrifice
and patriotism and unspeakable courage, as well as being a potent
reminder of just what the Doctor is willing to endure for the sake of
his fellow men. And in no small way, it brought him to
me. For those
reasons, I love it. And I also hate it as he does, because I
can never
look at it without being reminded that he is mortal, and was hurt very
badly, and remains subject to the thousand natural shocks that flesh is
heir to.
"If you only knew how that sounds to me. Or
comprehended what I truly think of you." I touched the
beautiful
marred flesh with my fingertip. It was not an admission, but
it was a
slip, and a heartfelt one.
"You could tell me," he suggested, tying a loose knot.
"No,
I couldn't," I said. It maddened me as much as it did him at
times, I
am sure, and yet it was true. "I lack all words for it, and
yet I do
require you to better understand why I lied to you."
"I know
why you lied to me," he said, looking straight at me. His
eyes are so
frank that at times they nearly frighten me. "You lied
because of
Wilson Kemp and his foul, degenerate ways. You need not tell
me, my
love, what charcoal poisoning looks like."
Needn't I? I thought. I
am no stranger to nightmares. Neither are you. But
needn't I tell you of the worst vision I have ever seen?
"No?"
I asked. "Well, then I will not explain further why I
lied. I shan't
do so ever again," I vowed quietly, "for it isn't worth the pain I
cause you when I do. There was no carriage door, I kept you
away
because I wanted you safe, and I deserve more than a bruise on the
wrist. I deserve considerably worse from you. I
think you know that.
But I never want to be without you, my dear fellow. In fact,
I don't
think I can be without you. If you
managed to get yourself
killed, I should have to determine how best to follow after you, like
some bizarre retelling of Hermes retrieving Persephone, and that would
be a very inconvenient exercise for a young man."
It had not
been ideal, but his eyes were shining again, and I knew he understood
me. "For not telling me what you think of me, and being an
astonishingly meandering and altogether too classical declaration, that
was shockingly effective," he said hoarsely.
"I sense a certain
mockery in your tone," I pointed out, falling back to the pillows with
an ironic expression. He blew out the bedside candle and then
I had
him in my arms, his head on my chest. I placed one arm around
his back
and rested my other hand softly over his throat, faintly sensing his
pulse beat steadily on.
After several minutes, when I thought him asleep, he muttered, "I am
going to give you a gift."
"Are you?"
"Yes.
A very powerful gift, too. Nearly a magical gift.
Fire from Zeus
himself. Pardon the poetry, but you did start it, you know."
"What the devil are you talking about?"
"I shall rewrite history," he declared drowsily. "As it ought
to have been, and as I wish you to remember it."
"I don't understand, dear heart."
"Then wait and see."
I have just finished "The Adventure of the Greek
Interpreter." The Strand
sits before me on my desk, untouched save for that single soulful
offering. Prometheus returned from on high with a priceless
fiery
torch, and John Watson published another sort of Greek fable that made
my life as clear to me as if the gods had equipped me with a diagram of
it. I only hope he will not be punished for his generosity as
Prometheus was.
I read all his pieces, mind. But very few of them are
actually written to me.
And I simply had to set this down at once, as it happened in fact,
because John Watson has done such an admirable job of mending the
shattered pieces that I had felt reality itself altered
forever. The
story was a mosaic of flawless construction. Part was a sly
look at
our actual meeting with Mycroft the next day...part defiance that the
Wilson Kemps of the world could ever dare to harm us...part a nod to
peril in all its devious forms...and part my own actions as I should
have taken them all those months ago, fearlessly inclusive, with him at
my side, because he wishes me to know that when we are together nothing
can go wrong. I don't believe him. And I will never
again, never again,
wait for a police warrant. But I love him all the better for
it, and I
long to obey him--to call for him eagerly no matter the circumstance,
to keep him from harm through proximity and not distance, to be the man
in that story, with whom Watson shares a "long and intimate"
acquaintance.
"Why would you rewrite history, and for me?" I asked that night, twined
together with him in my bed.
"Because I love you. You do know that, don't you?"
"I am beginning to," I murmured.
For I was.