I awoke very gradually that
morning, my senses asserting
themselves
singly rather than as a whole. I could tell from the direction of the
light falling through the window that dawn was about to blossom into a
fully fledged sunrise, and a few minutes later could hear the
twittering of birds on the elaborate scrolled stonework. A vague corner
of my mind wondered, from the sensation of the bedclothes, whether I
was wearing anything, and the answer proved to be negative. When my
hand stirred at last, it struck an object which was surprisingly warm
and solid, and in another moment, to my initial shock, I could smell
the heady tobacco and fresh linen aroma belonging to the world's only
unofficial consulting detective.
Then it all came back to me.
Fragments
of the previous night flashed before my eyes, and it crossed my mind
that I might yet be dreaming. But no--my muscles consented to move only
grudgingly, not the effortless motion of dreams. I considered shifting
to my other side, and I considered remaining where I was. Should I stir
at all, I was certain I would wake him; the man has the reflexes of a
feral cat.
For the moment, I calmed myself by examining my
surroundings. Thankfully, I already faced him. He was
sleeping
peacefully on his back, the faintest shadow of growth beginning on his
pale face. One long hand was resting on the pillow beside his raven
head, as if he had run his fingers through his hair in exhaustion and
his arm had fallen dead from fatigue. The early-morning light
illuminated every detail of the room. I could see faint dust-motes
shimmering in the air against the ancient velvet curtains, and my
friend's eyes shifting slightly in his sleep behind dark, sweeping
lashes. He was dreaming of something. I could not begin to imagine
what.
Finally I raised myself on one elbow, and in response to
my movement the lids slowly opened, revealing fog-grey irises. I had
seen them countless times before. As a matter of fact, I had
studied
them. However, when examined at a distance of a mere few
inches, I
discovered that they were shot through with lighter silver, and rimmed
with a fine dark edge of charcoal.
"Good morning," he said softly. A smile lurked about the edges of his
mouth.
"Good morning," I replied. It sounded ludicrous to my ears,
but it seemed the only option available.
There
was a faint birthmark on his shoulder, a tiny smudge of darker flesh
near his collarbone. This, too was a discovery. Wondering idly what it
tasted like, I bent my head to find out.
"Did you sleep well?" he inquired when I looked up at him again, his
voice rough with disuse.
The
formality, or perhaps the normalcy, of the question brought a smile to
my face which I made some effort to hide. For the first time since I
had come to know Sherlock Holmes, I had not an inkling of how he was
going to react to me. The supremely self-confident intellectual I had
known for years appeared momentarily to have been replaced by a
politely inquisitive fellow whose glancing look contained equal
measures affection and shyness. This chap I had never encountered
before in my life, but I had no desire whatever to offend him.
"Very well, thank you. Although if I am any judge of time, we can't
have been asleep for more than three hours."
"Surely you exaggerate. We retired at eleven."
"Yes, but I seem to recall you having distracted me from any attempt at
slumber," I reminded him.
"Ah, yes. My apologies. It is all rather a blur."
"That is undoubtedly odd. I can recall it vividly."
"What part?" he asked, allowing himself to smile more fully.
"I speak of the lengthy interim after you kissed me. You do remember
that, don't you?"
"Let
me see," he sighed luxuriously, stretching his arms like a lithe and
graceful cat. "I do recall kissing you. But I do not recall precisely
what it was like, so in a moment, with your permission, I may refresh
my memory."
"I will consider it," I granted, my heart
quickening quite absurdly, "but I should very much like to know how you
worked out that if you kissed me, I would not pack my bags or knock you
down?"
"Those scenarios seemed unlikely." He rolled onto his
side and threw a leg companionably over my body under the coverlet.
"So, to further reconstruct the events of last night, I kissed you. And
then you claim I distracted you."
"You distracted me three times," I asserted seriously.
"Heavens," he murmured, his eyes closing.
I
ran the back of my fingers over one of his cheekbones. Their fineness,
had the rest of his face not been so masculine, would have made him
appear even thinner than he actually was. Searching for the
words to
express myself, I considered several options, discarding them each in
turn. I had just made myself flush when his eyes opened again and his
brow quirked amusedly.
"What on earth are you thinking?"
"You cannot deduce it?" I deflected, stalling for time.
"Not
anymore." He captured my hand with one of his far more elegant ones. "I
knew very nearly everything about my friend John Watson, but I don't
believe you can technically be considered my friend any longer."
"I suppose the reverse is true as well. That is unfortunate, as we were
exceptional friends."
My
companion's chest, which was not obscured by the rather sumptuous
sheets, brought to mind a marble statue I had once seen on the streets
of Florence, a classical rendering of Apollo in pale stone that was
cool and soothing to the touch. Wondering what the
Renaissance
worshipers of the masculine form might have made of the divine being in
my bed, my gaze wandered back to his face.
His eyes glowed at me coyly. "What were you thinking about?" he
repeated.
"Art, actually."
"Really?"
Opening
my mouth, I found myself once again at a loss. "I haven't the slightest
idea how to have a conversation like this with you."
"Why not?" he asked, looking suddenly very concerned.
"No,
no," I laughed. "Don't be alarmed. But it is going to take some time
for me to adjust to the death of our friendship. This is all very new
and, quite frankly, terribly alarming."
"I don't know why you
should suddenly develop a hesitancy in speaking to me now, of all
times," he pointed out, still worried. "You did not appear to
mince
any words yesterday."
"Yes, I am sorry about that. Well, I am
not precisely sorry, but--Holmes, I can speak with you about any topic
under the sun, have always felt completely free with you, but my dear
fellow, as vibrant and sensual as you are, you have not all these years
portrayed yourself as a very...sexual creature."
"Oh," he
nodded. When his head moved, his jawline arrested my
attention. It was
square, determined, chiseled, and exceedingly distracting. "I
understand. Well, my tastes in such matters would likely not embellish
the admittedly bizarre social standing I now posses. But I do see what
you mean."
"I am struggling to come to grips with your--I mean to say with this
newfound--intimacy."
"Lucky thing you are a doctor, then, and do not subscribe to needless
prudery."
"Yes, I suppose it is lucky."
When
I said nothing more, he propped himself up on his elbow with an
exasperated expression. His hair was standing at attention and at
numerous angles. It occurred to me that if I wanted to reach out and
touch it, as I had longed to do thousands of times, I could. This
development seemed to me scarcely credible. I swept a portion of it
back from his temple. It was fine but very dense, with a silken
texture. I had often wondered.
Taking a breath, I ventured, "I
was just thinking that I have not been distracted by anyone three times
in as many hours since St. Bart's."
I was rewarded for this
confidence with a dry chuckle. "I confess I have not found myself in
circumstances warranting such ardor in quite some time," he owned.
"There are very few gentlemen in the world I find inspiring in the
first place, and--" Stopping, he grinned, leaning his head on his hand.
"Now, what the devil are your eyebrows doing? No, don't tell me. You
are wondering how many."
"I would never dream of asking you
any such thing," I protested, rather appalled. I would have to be far
more careful than I had proven in the past. Apparently the
incorrigible fellow could still read minds despite his protestations to
the contrary.
"No, you wouldn't. But that does not mean you
are not curious about the past conquests of your friend the heartless
automaton. Anyone as deficient in human sympathy as I am--"
"My
dear fellow," I protested, although I knew perfectly well I had brought
this remark on my own head with my violently antagonistic behavior the
day before.
He did not seem angered, however, merely amused. "I
admit that you may have to adjust one or two of your notions on the
subject. Although you were perfectly right in thinking grit
in
sensitive instruments disturbs me greatly. Sand in
particular. I once
spent a night on the edge of the ocean with a rather
adventurous--whatever is the matter?"
"Nothing. I am simply
making an effort to alter my thinking to include Sherlock Holmes as a
man of passion," I clarified, feeling as if any dignity I had once
possessed was lost somewhere under the bed with my clothing.
"I've
no reason not to satisfy your curiosity. The number is very
reasonably
small, and happens to be twelve. Do not, I beg of you, volunteer any
such information yourself, please. You are the scourge of three
separate continents and two genders, and I would not survive the
revelation. I do not require my confidence to be decimated before
breakfast."
"I don't see why it should be," I muttered,
recalling the variety of methods employed upon my person the night
before. "You are very, very good at what you do. At everything you do."
This time a faint blush spread over his cheeks, and a subtle
blue vein in his neck pulsed visibly. "I am delighted to learn I am not
hopelessly out of practice."
"So, the last time you...."
"Sodomized someone?"
"For Heaven's sake, Holmes."
"I
beg your pardon, Doctor," he said with a very unconvincing show of
contrition. He adjusted the sheet demurely. "Distracted
someone. Using
any of various methods in my repertoire, a few of which I have shown
you. Pray continue."
"Never mind," I said quickly. I was, as
the saying goes, all at sea, and this condition appeared to be amusing
my companion to no end.
"I rather like you like this," he stated happily.
I bashed his head with an ornamental pillow. This action felt
exceedingly gratifying.
"Confound
it, my dear, dear fellow, yesterday I was livid at you, I almost think
we might have finally come to blows, and this morning you are in my
bed."
"That is true," he conceded. "I for one consider it a marked
improvement."
"The
world has gone mad," I groaned. "I have no desire to pry,
Holmes, nor
the wish for any further information which I have not earned. I only
want to understand. To understand, and to be allowed to grow used
to...to you, as you are now. Which is to say, very different
from the
way you were."
"We could make it four, if you like. Since we
haven't risen, I believe it would still be counted in the same session.
Four, with a brief respite for sleep. As part of an ongoing effort to
allow you to grow accustomed to me," he suggested. Although
he did not
touch me, he may as well have, for I could feel his eyes burning into
me like stray ashes from a cigar. "There are one or two
trifling
things I'm keen to try."
My pulse began thumping quite against
my will. I could see slight marks on his lean torso where my own hands
had gripped him the night before. He had drawn one knee up, and his
shapely fingers dangled over it languidly. How many times had I wanted
to put one of those fingers between my teeth and determine if they
tasted of porcelain, or only looked it? How many times had I yearned to
explore the exquisite texture of them with my lips and tongue? How many
times had I burned for the events set in motion by this cold, incisive,
aloof companion, and damn him to hell, for how many years had he
brushed past me indifferent, the ties of his dressing gown fluttering
behind him? And now, here he was. Mine. I had been shouting at him
viciously the day before, and now he was mine. It beggared all belief.
I reached for the confounded hand, very likely the appendage which had
started all the trouble in the first place, and commenced my
exploration at the second knuckle of his ring finger.
Sitting
at the impossibly long breakfast table two hours later, alone, I
consumed a quantity of eggs and kippers, my appetite strangely
enhanced. I was sipping my second cup of coffee when Holmes strode in,
his face brightened by the wind. After a quick and efficient survey of
the tall windows and a glance at the doors, he leaned over me and
kissed the back of my neck until my fork fell with a clatter to the
stone floor. He then reached down and helped himself to a taste of my
coffee.
"You've sent your telegram?" I asked, praying my voice would emerge
normally.
"Yes,
I sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death of Selden.
And I have relieved the mind of my faithful young Cartwright. He would
certainly have pined away at the door of the hut had I not done so. I
shall not be returning to that habitation."
"No?" I inquired.
"No.
It is quite unbearably damp, and I don't think you would care for the
fact that it lacks a door. I have grown increasingly aware of late of
the value of privacy in sleeping arrangements."
"Have you?" I
coughed, for at that moment in strode Sir Henry, broad-shouldered and
affable, his frank face refreshed and awake.
"Ah, here he is!"
Holmes exclaimed. He had placed a hand on my shoulder when he had
stolen my coffee, and he did not bother to remove it now.
"Good morning, Holmes," said the baronet. "You look like a general who
is planning a battle with his chief of the staff."
"That is the exact situation," my friend replied readily, his fingers
pressing into me. "Watson was asking for orders."
I
felt as if I were in enemy territory, transported somehow to a hostile
landscape in which I must at all costs act normally, but had lost any
knowledge of what normal behavior resembled. I have no doubt but that
Sir Henry suspected nothing, and Holmes had rested a hand on my
shoulder countless times, but it was impossible to sit two inches away
from him without recalling that a filigree of blue veins fluttered in
his neck when I kissed them, and that when he cried out he sounded
exactly as he had once during the sweat-soaked throes of delirium in
Lyons, and that just where the bones of his pelvis interacted with his
external oblique abdominal muscle, there was a deep diagonal depression
which could bring one to a belief in a Deity. The merest
thought of
the those taught twin lines, in fact, stirred longings I'd been busy
satiating all night through.
"When do you desire to go?" Sir Henry was inquiring coldly.
I
came back to myself in an instant, replacing my cup in its saucer.
Where could we possibly go? Had they been speaking of London a moment
previous?
"Immediately after breakfast. Watson will leave his
things as a pledge he will come back to you. One grows to rely upon
him, I know, but I'm afraid I cannot spare him just now. Watson, you
will send a note to Stapleton that you regret you cannot come."
"Of course," I said, utterly bemused.
"One more direction," my friend added to Sir Henry. "Let them know that
you intend to walk home."
"To walk across the moor? But that is the very thing you have cautioned
me not to do!"
To
hide my confusion, I took another sip of coffee. The thought
struck me
square in the head that Holmes' mouth had been in that exact location
moments before, and I lost another few seconds of the conversation
taking place above me. When I returned to it, I could not
help but
curse myself for lack of attention, for I had no wish to endanger Sir
Henry Baskerville with my ignorance, and even less of a wish to
disappoint Holmes at the close of an investigation.
"As you
value your life, do not go across the moor in any direction save the
path from Merripit House to Grimpen Road, which is your natural way
home."
Sir Henry, of whom as an open, good-hearted fellow I had
grown rather fond, looked from one to the other of us in dismay, but as
little as I understood Holmes' instructions--indeed, as little as I
understood any of the events in the past twelve hours--there was
nothing for it but implicit obedience. The baronet fell into
a brown
study at the desertion of his companions, and although I wished to
comfort him, I could not begin to think how. My friend
assured Sir
Henry that he was not being left in the lurch, but if I had been the
heir of the Baskervilles, I do not think I would have believed him any
more than Sir Henry appeared to do. We left him staring at
the
flagstone floor with his brows knitted, Holmes in the lead and I making
a valiant effort not to picture my friend in any other guise than that
of a well-regarded and highly adept consulting detective.
Thus
it was in a state of profound bewilderment that I accompanied Sherlock
Holmes to Coombe Tracy. The breeze was pleasant enough, and
the
landscape of the moors striking in its barren beauty, but the hundreds
of questions forming in my mind without my consent left me scant energy
to enjoy it. As for Holmes, I grudgingly allowed him his
habitual
silence. I knew better than to question him, after all--and
yet I
could scarcely be comforted by the fact that I knew any queries would
inevitably avail me nothing.
Young Cartwright met us in town,
and retrieved a telegram for Holmes from the station office.
He was a
fresh-faced young fellow, active and eager, with that confident air of
delegated responsibility and enterprise that Holmes so often inspires
in children. Shaking my hand gravely, he looked up the length
of
Holmes' impressive height for further instructions.
"Lestrade
arrives at five forty," Holmes reported, placing the telegram in his
pocket. "He is the best of the professionals, and I believe
we shall
need his assistance. Now Cartwright, are you ready for a
journey this
morning?"
"Always ready, sir," the lad grinned.
"It is
one of your more salient qualities, I grant. I wish you to
return to
London, and as soon as you arrive there, send a telegram in my name to
Sir Henry. Here is your fare, and something a little extra."
"Thank you, I'm sure. What'll I say?"
"Tell
him if he finds the pocketbook I dropped at the Hall, to send it by
registered post to Baker Street. Have you got all that?"
"London,
telegram, Sir Henry, pocketbook. I'm already gone, sir," he
said, and
with a salute to the two of us, hurried back to the station.
"That
boy will end up Prime Minister if he's not careful," Holmes
smiled. He
took me by the arm and we left the station, walking down the
pebble-strewn road. It was a gesture so habitual for him, and
indeed
so familiar, as to make me exceedingly uncomfortable. "I
think that we
must call upon your acquaintance Mrs. Laura Lyons without further
delay."
It was an easy distance to Mrs. Lyon's cottage, and I
saw at once her lights were visible from the windows. She
received us
in her office, where she was replying to her correspondence, and her
chin lifted defiantly when my friend opened the interview with his
customary cold efficiency by accusing her of having hidden information
regarding the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. For all my
days in
service to his cases, on occasion Sherlock Holmes' utter disregard for
the social niceties could still make me writhe inwardly.
"You
have withheld the connection between your confessed rendezvous with Sir
Charles and the fact that it corresponded exactly with the place and
hour of his death."
"There is no connection," she insisted, but her face paled as she spoke.
"Mrs.
Lyons," he said rather more kindly, "won't you allow me to set this
right? We regard this case as one of murder, and it would
pain me to
implicate not only you, but your friend Mr. Stapleton and his wife as
well."
She sprang from her chair with a cry of pain, and at once
sat down again, grasping the arms as if they would save her from
drowning. "His wife!" she gasped. Tears started
into her eyes, and
then she angrily blinked them away again. "His
wife! He is not a
married man!"
I poured her a glass of water and waited for her
grip on the chair to relax so that I might place it in her trembling
hand. "Dr. Watson, please!" she pleaded. "He hasn't
any wife."
"Here
is a photograph of the couple taken in York four years ago," Holmes
stated clinically, handing it to her. "You will have no
difficulty in
recognizing either of them, I think. Here also are three
written
descriptions by trustworthy witnesses."
"Oh, the monster!" she
choked, repressing a sob. Setting the glass down, she placed
her hands
over her face piteously. "His wife! He has lied to
me. Lied in every
conceivable way. His wife. Not one word of truth
has he ever told
me," she wept. My eyes darted to Holmes, but his own were
riveted on
the lady. "I had imagined it was all for my sake.
But now--oh, it is
too cruel. I see that I was never anything but a tool in his
hands."
She turned her face up to Holmes in despair. "Why should I
preserve
faith with him who never kept any with me?"
To my shock,
something in what she said struck my friend profoundly. His
face grew
whiter, and a slight spasm of pain crossed his features, there for a
moment and then gone without a trace. Impulsively, he knelt
on the
floor beside her and pressed a hand against her arm.
"It is the
best of all the questions you could ask, though in another sense it is
also the worst. That he used you is manifestly true, and I am
sorry
for it, but you are right to think he deserves neither your forgiveness
nor your consideration. I am not glad to be the bearer of ill
news.
But insomuch as I can set it right, I will," he swore.
My friend
has always been sympathetic to those clients of his who had genuinely
suffered, but I had never heard such a heartfelt speech from him in my
life. I sat down in a cane-backed chair and watched him,
turning his
words over and over in my mind. Inexplicably, I grew
increasingly
distressed, but soon enough I'd pinpointed the cause: I had always
imagined I knew him better than anyone. Indeed, knowing him
inside and
out had all too often filled the void left by loving him. And
yet here
he continued committing act after act as little like himself as I was
like Sir Henry.
Questioningly wearily if I had ever really
known him at all, any particle of him, I sat in silence as Mrs. Lyons
poured her heart out before what had once been the world's most
isolated man. The news of the Stapletons' designs struck her
hard, but
she soon recovered enough to devote herself wholly to Holmes'
cause.
He, in turn, displayed his usual courtesy, palpably altered before my
eyes by an astonishing level of genuine warmth. He no longer
touched
her, but the sight of his active hand resting pensively against his
face brought still more tumultuous memories to my mind as I struggled
against increasing fatigue. The afternoon shadows were
lengthening
into great swaths of grey when I departed with him an hour later,
convinced I had somehow fallen down Alice's rabbit hole.
We
walked down the street for nearly a minute in silence. When
Holmes
stretched out a hand absently to take my arm again, I must have
flinched at the touch.
"What is it?" he asked immediately.
"You startled me," I sighed. "That is all."
"I've
never startled you in that way before," he retorted calmly.
We resumed
walking. He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked down
at the
path with a frown settling between his brows.
"Why should it perturb you so? I am anxious, and out of
sorts, and quite possibly hallucinating this entire day."
"I
have seen you anxious and out of sorts, and forgive my observing this
isn't the same." He smiled at me, and I am not doing him an
injustice
to term it a wicked smile. "It isn't as if I'm going to bite
you."
Terribly
salacious thoughts flooded my mind, and I only managed to surface with
an effort. "Let us just say that you have done a great many
things
since last night which utterly confound me and leave it at that," I
replied testily. "At this point, I should hardly be surprised
if you
did bite me."
"No, that would not have startled you. In fact, you quite
liked that, as I recall."
"Holmes," I warned him.
"Not that the pleasure was one-sided, I assure you. The base
of your spine could prove a Holy Land for me."
"For
the love of God, Holmes, we are on a public street," I hissed at
him.
The commingled feelings of vexation and flattery that he would say such
things to me were growing intolerable.
"A deserted public
street, and in Dartmoor. I am sorry. Truly, I am,
and for a number of
things, but I cannot pretend to understand."
"Has it never taken
you a period of time to grow used to a new subject?" I demanded, my
patience beginning to wear thin. "Are you really such a
mechanical
savant? Were you born able to perform advanced
chemistry? Speak
French? Accept the fact that--as disconcerting as it might be
to face
it--you may as well never have met your dearest friend for all you know
of the man?"
Far from taking offense, he merely laughed at my
distress. "I am a very great deal less intimidating, complex
and
beautiful than either advanced chemistry or French."
"Not--" I
began, and then stopped myself. Not to me, I could have
said. Not
then, not now, and so far as I could judge, not ever. But
saying it
was another matter entirely.
"Damn it all to hell," he snapped
suddenly, stopping in the middle of the road. "Come with me,"
he
ordered. He seized my arm once more and reversed our
direction, now
taking us down a side path away from the main portion of Coombe
Tracy.
I asked him no questions. Indeed, I felt marginally more
comfortable than I had all day, since being ordered about by Sherlock
Holmes is a task with which I am well acquainted. We'd walked
for
three or four minutes when he left the path, strode through a scraggly
swath of moor grasses mingling with mud and stones, and threw open the
door of a very pleasant if abandoned-looking barn. The door
was lost
in the shadow of a moss-encrusted oak, but I could see from without it
was not in frequent use, although well laid in with hay.
"What can you be thinking?" I questioned coolly.
"I
am going in this barn," he said, more calm now than he had
been. "You
can either accompany me and I will ease some of the tensions so
manifestly surging through you, or you can go back to the station if
you're careful not to be seen, or stay just there and guard the door
against chickens while I indulge in a little sleep. I won't
pretend
it's all one to me, for I admit I crave your company. You
cannot go
back to the Hall. But if you wish me to leave you alone, I
will."
I considered, mollified somewhat by his sympathetic tone. "I
have
always, and still do, prefer being with you to being alone."
A
tight smile lit one corner of his face at this. He turned
around and
walked through the gate. When I had followed him, my eyes
adjusting to
the pale light, he shut the door and barred it from the
inside. The
air was cool and surprisingly fresh, for there were gaps in the slats
forming the walls and the roof. Holmes made his way to one of
the
unoccupied stables, and seeing no better options, I followed
him. It
was impeccably clean, its stock of horses having likely been only just
traded or sold.
"I've a minor proposition for you," he stated, leaning back against a
convenient post and lighting a cigarette.
"Have you indeed?"
"Yes.
The point is this, my dear chap. I believe that I am making
you
uncomfortable, and I should like to make it up to you one way or
another."
I made an effort to read his eyes, but he was looking
at his cigarette. "I suppose you have already thought of a
way," I
remarked dryly. Breathing in, I found myself grateful for the
distracting clean odours of hay and lumber.
"If you are against
it, we shall think of something else," he dismissed me, waving smoke in
the air. "However, this is what I propose. We have
some time to
spare, and I will do whatever you like within these walls.
Nothing
barred whatsoever, my dear Watson--anything you desire to do, we shall
do it, but you are going to have to ask me. Aloud.
For everything."
It
was not the proposal I had expected--I had hoped deeply for some
explanation of the previous night's events--but now it was on the
table, it decidedly drove all others from my mind.
"And what do
you imagine that might accomplish, apart from the obvious benefit of
passing the time?" I inquired, attempting to look as if his idea had
not stirred my loins considerably.
"One, you will shed a measure
of the caution I've unfortunately engendered in you over the course of
our friendship. I take full blame for it, please believe
me. And
two--well, I also will benefit, I promise you, though in another way."
"How
do you know I may not order you to do something you would not enjoy in
the least?" I demanded. "After all, as I said, I am beginning
to feel
as if I've never met you."
I felt not only aroused, but
patronized, I grant. I knew myself to be annoyed at Holmes
for any
number of reasons, including residual rage, and even more incensed at
myself for continuing to blush every ten minutes like a child caught
with a toy which does not belong to him.
He shrugged languidly.
"I don't believe anything in our present environs could inspire you to
acts beyond my limits. I've no great affinity for beatings,
but that
strap on the wall hasn't any metal in it, and thankfully there are no
horses within the building."
I did not dignify these twin
observations with a reply, preferring suddenly a view of the swept
earth floor. Holmes laughed at first and then shook his head
as the
same odd expression of pain crossed his features.
"Dear Lord, what have I done to you all this time?" he
muttered.
"I
am not like this with other men," I remarked coldly. "I am
not callow,
nor am I easily shocked, I assure you. You have asked me not
to share
any stories, and I am delighted to honour that wish. But you
must know
that, as questionable a topic as horses and strappings may be, this is
a reaction to you, not to deviant sex acts."
"No, I--that is to say, it is unlike you," he agreed, frowning in
serious vexation before quickly relaxing his face.
"I've no wish to hurt you, but--"
"Never mind hurting me," he snapped. "You're welcome to hurt
me. God knows I've hurt you enough."
"That is not what I meant. Holmes, are you actually asking me
to beat--"
"No,
I am not," he assured me, "although I am in earnest when I say I'd
allow it. You'll learn, if you have the stomach to continue
this
experiment for any serious length of time, what I am like when left to
my own devices. All I am asking is to do what you
like. You know me to be a rather domineering sort of fellow,
and as
you may have noticed, I cannot say I am much different in bed than I am
out of it."
"I've no complaints in that regard, but Holmes--"
"I
wish to be in your hands, and short of placing this verbal requirement
on you, I cannot be sure my actions won't affect your
choices. Do not
imagine I don't know what I have been to you over this length of
time.
I am cold, and calculating, and imperious, and for all you know
heartless, and my reserve has apparently wrought a rather profound
effect on you."
I did not respond immediately, but I could not
help but be grateful for his completely unprecedented
candour. Then
some of my own words from the day before came back to me, and I
understood better the strange silvery glow lighting his eyes as he
awaited my response.
"You aren't heartless," I said gently. "If
you were, you'd have chosen another profession. And I would
have
chosen another friend."
"Thank you," he said with a disarming depth of sincerity. It
so bemused me, I lost my capacity for words once again.
"Well, are you interested?" he murmured at last.
"There
are very few things about you which do not interest me," I confessed
through my teeth. "I believe that may be a part of the
problem."
"Go
on, then," he said softly. He crushed the cigarette very
carefully
against the post before tossing it into the hay. "Explore at
your
leisure."
He did not look smug, I know now, as he leaned back
against the post once more and crossed his arms expectantly.
I only
half convinced myself he appeared smug at the time. In all
honesty, he
looked shy, but it is just possible that if I had not still been
experiencing waves of anger at him, I should never have embarked on the
experiment in the first place. Removing my jacket only, I
draped it
over the wood.
"Your clothing, everything you're wearing above the waist," I said at
last. "Take it off."
His
lips curled in a lopsided smile which he quickly suppressed.
Then he
turned around. And immediately after that, my entire world
changed for
the rest of my days. I do not know in what way I'd expected
him to
comply. In addition I had forgotten that the night before,
the lights
had been dimmed and my senses overpowered by shock. But
something
about what he did that afternoon took my breath away completely, and I
have never once gotten any closer to getting it back.
He undid
his cufflinks with two swift, economical motions and placed them
carefully in his waistcoat pocket before hanging his frock coat on a
nail in the post. His tie, which he also took his time in
removing, he
folded and deposited in one pocket of his trousers. Then with
perfect
ease, as if he were about to step into a bath, he removed his cuffs,
curving them over the half-wall, and proceeded to unbutton his
waistcoat with one hand--his right--while he unhooked his watch chain
with the other. After the watch was safe and the waistcoat
hung, he
addressed both hands to his shirt front. Through it all he
was so
inexplicably, gloriously himself; he did not glance down at his
buttons, for he did not need to do so. He unfastened them
from top to
bottom without a single motion wasted. He acted as if he did
not know
I was there, and even still it was a performance, an impeccable
performance, and my urgings were all the stronger due to the fact I had
never so openly watched him undress before. At last he drew
his shirt
and undershirt off, the muscles of his back rippling beneath as he hung
the fine white fabric over all the black. When he had removed
his belt
and tossed it to the ground, he turned around to face me.
"I think you had better come here," I breathed.
The
moment he was within reaching distance, I pulled him into me, bringing
his black head down. His lips parted when I kissed him, and
my fingers
brushed against every surface, all the contours of his pale flesh,
studying the structure beneath the impeccable frock coats and the
ancient dressing gowns of the man I had loved for so long I wanted to
shake him. I drove my tongue into his mouth, the world
dissolving
around my ears.
If he had intended I demand he kiss me in
return, he had apparently forgotten, for he leaned into me hungrily,
his hand coming up to cradle the side of my face as my fingers explored
the washboard ridges of his fleshless stomach. At last I
broke away
with an effort.
"Kneel on the ground."
He did so at once,
neither kneeling straight up nor resting back on his heels, but
hovering at a slight backwards angle on impossibly strong thighs.
The
encouraging smile on his reddened lips parted as I opened my trousers.
"Put my cock in your mouth."
The
moment I said it, I knew he had been right. And the moment he
obeyed,
closing his eyes as if I had been the one granting him a favour, I knew
what the success of the experiment, as he called it, meant to
him. A
night of passion can be conducted with relative grace, as ours indeed
had been, any small mistakes disappearing in the flood of new
sensation. But I was more to him than that, I was beginning
to
understand. He did not want me if I was afraid of him, and I
respected
him so ardently we had both mistaken it for the same thing.
I
could not restrain a shuddering moan as he swallowed me, my hands in
all his ebony hair and his own questing fingers, frustrated by my
clothing, sliding under my shirt and up my chest. For a
little while,
I gave myself over completely to sensation. But I did not
want to be
alone in my pleasure any more than I wanted to pleasure myself.
"Wait--slower. Open your trousers and touch yourself."
The
little gasp which hitched his rhythm when he complied more than a
thousand times compensated for what he no doubt perceived as an
imperfection. It stirred the ache in my chest as surely as if
he had
struck me, and I wanted more of him. As much as it was, it
was not
enough. I caught his face with my hand, my thumb slipping
into the
edge of his mouth as I pulled away from him.
He looked
surprised, but it melted when I knelt before him, pressing my chest
against his, snaking my arms around his slim form and kissing him
deeply, urgently. Both his hands came up to encircle the back
of my
head, and minutes passed which seemed like days while we did nothing
more than taste each other, his lips as soft and subtle as his body was
hard. He is so long in the torso that even kneeling he was
two inches
taller than I, and when one of my fists closed around both our members,
his head fell back with a stifled groan and I buried my lips in his
neck.
"Yes," I whispered. "You may feel free to make that sound as
often as you like."
I
felt him smile when I kissed him again. I had resolved to
take my
time. My mouth traveled everywhere it could reach, from his
birdlike
collarbones to his glazed china shoulders to his solid pectorals, one
hand gripping us in a slow rhythm while the other clutched at his
hips. Just when I had elicited a breathless murmur as my
tongue grazed
his nipple, I felt if I did not pay some attention to the most perfect
back I had even seen, I did not deserve the privilege.
I swung
around to his side. His legs were parted by perhaps a foot,
and I
knelt between them. Holmes was in one sense right about me; I
had been
with a number of men before him, and women as well, occasionally even
during our seven-year period of platonic partnership. Some
were
friends, and some were strangers, and occasionally I had experienced
what could be considered a lover. But I had never been with a
man
whose every motion put me in mind of a panther, whose straight,
flawless spine traversed so many dips and knots of muscle, who gasped
softly when my arms were enfolding him and I bit his neck, who had a
little triangle of three moles perched above his matchless shoulder
blades. Perhaps it was because I loved him that I found these
things
miraculous, but I do not think so. Objectively speaking, he
is
breathtaking.
Reaching forward, I took him in my hand once more,
producing a very gratifying moan. As I stroked him, I could
feel him
shuddering, but he held himself under perfect control, neither driving
into me nor resisting me, perhaps in a effort to keep himself from the
edge. The ache in my own groin wanted nothing more than to
see him
half-mad with pleasure, and I found myself pushing his trousers down
and before wetting my fingers in my mouth.
"Put your hands on the floor," I requested breathlessly.
As
he did, he swept all the hay away so that his palms were on the
dirt.
It was such an endearingly idiosyncratic gesture, I could easily have
declared myself his for the rest of my days, but instead I gripped him
harder, pressing a finger inside.
He is a vocal creature, and
though he tried his best to muffle it, he cried out
nonetheless. I do
not know how he kept himself in check so long, but when I added a
second digit, he at last thrust himself into me, as if his body were
finally no longer his to command.
"Tell me what you want," I begged him.
"No," he gasped.
"Do it," I pleaded. "For me."
"Take me, then."
"Are you sure?"
"If you are waiting for me to say please, you have the wrong man," he
returned hoarsely.
It
was enough. I spread the moisture over my weeping member and
drove
into him slowly, inexorably, biting my lip until it was nearly bleeding
in an effort to keep some control over myself, to think beyond the
stars in my vision and the pleasure spreading back to my
spine. When I
had pressed myself to the limit, he was suddenly up once more, his back
to my chest, leaning his head behind him until his smooth-shaven face
was pressed against mine.
He cried out softly again when we
moved at last, both of us balancing, my two hands on his pelvis to help
steady him, as if he needed any such assistance. I could do
little but
struggle for breath, my lips against his neck. He threw one
long arm
up to caress my head, his other fingers twining into my hand on his
hipbone. Our pace was like a brakeless train on an incline,
slow at
first but irrevocably gaining in speed. I honestly do not
think I
could have held out for longer than a few thrusts had we not just
relieved the same urges four times in succession, but when the sweat at
length trickled between his shoulders, and the sight of his face, eyes
closed worshipfully while he murmured things I could not catch but
prayed to one day, became too much for me, I moved our woven hands to
pull insistently at his flesh.
The effects were instantaneous.
As he died, pressing his back into my embrace while waves of release
possessed him, I followed. My cry was not entirely stifled by
my
love's back, but I swore to myself it made a difference. I
held him
until we both were still, and then for a little longer, and then I
reluctantly sat back on my heels.
I quickly located a pocket handkerchief in my sleeve and handed it to
Holmes. "Are you all right?" I asked, coming to his side.
He was flushed and heavy-lidded, his mouth quirked into a fond
smile. "I'm fine."
"You're certain?"
"My
dear chap, I am not made of glass. As you are a physician,
you're
welcome to check, but I am perfectly all right. Apart from
the fact
that this isn't the simplest posture to maintain for nearly an hour."
Laughing, I stroked his shoulder. "Then come lie in the hay
with me."
"No,
I fear I must decline that invitation." He folded the cloth
and
replaced his undergarments and trousers. The light had
changed, and a
shaft of sun struck his breast at a dramatic angle. The rosy
glow
about him, in the light of day, was incredible.
"You really
don't wish to be near me?" I am far from the most sentimental
man in
England, but the overpowering fear that my friend's aloof coldness
would be the ruination of me forced the question from my lips.
He glanced at me in surprise. "Of course I do. But
I--"
I
did not wait for the rest of the sentence. Instead I knocked
him over,
catching him in a rugby tackle which drove both of us into the nearest
pile of hay. When I had rolled him onto his back, I lay my
head on his
shoulder. He was rigid and tense for a moment, but soon
wrapped his
arms around me.
"I must be rather fond of you," he remarked when
I drew back far enough to look into his face. "I don't allow
that to
happen very often."
He was not talking about rugby, of that I
was certain. Closing my eyes, I hid my countenance in his
neck under
pretext of kissing him, but perhaps a quarter of a second too
late. He
was already laughing, laughing silently and heartily, and when he saw
that I had noticed it, he covered his face with one hand and laughed
all the harder.
"Four of the twelve."
"I didn't ask you anything!" I protested vehemently, feeling myself
flush once more.
"Not
with your tongue," he agreed, "but if you expect to play your hand
rather closer in future, you are going to have to get your eyebrows
under tighter control. I must reiterate my desire to avoid
any
reciprocal information. I know what military men are like."
Glancing up at him with my hand on his abdomen, I said, "I have never
in my life been with anyone who compares to you."
He
kissed the top of my forehead at that, his eyes closing in his habitual
staving off of any profound sentiment. Then he paused to
breathe in
the scent of my hair. What on God's earth had happened to
change him
so profoundly I did not know, but from that moment I loved him enough
to allow him to take his time in telling me.
"Did you derive the benefit you anticipated from the experience?" I
asked.
"I should have thought that was obvious."
"No,
I mean--earlier you said it would do you good. But you didn't
know
what I was going to do. For all you knew, I was about to give
you
twelve of the best and leave you tied to a post."
"Forgive me
for saying that I know my Watson well enough to have assumed no lasting
harm would come to me," he smiled, running his thumb over my
cheekbone. "And I will tell you all about why it did me
good. I
promise you. But just now, I am a trifle too exhausted to
begin it.
And in a moment, I am going to have to beg a favour of you."
"Anything," I told him.
"I require my shirt, please."
"Anything
but that," I objected. Lying there with him in a pile of hay,
wearing
all of my own clothing while he was naked from the waist up, was
somehow more intimate than the two of us entirely unclothed in a bed
the night before.
"I am afraid I must insist upon it," he requested.
"But why?"
"Because I am going to develop a rather impressive scarlet rash in a
moment."
"My dear fellow!"
I
strode to his shirt at once and handed it to him. When he
leaned
forward to pull it on, I could make out what appeared to be tiny red
whip marks all over the flawless back I had five minutes previous been
adoring.
"Why the devil didn't you tell me you had hay fever?" I asked.
"It's only topical--since I was five or six and fell into a loose bale
in the barn. It'll be gone in half an hour."
"I'm
so sorry," I apologized, sitting on the ground with him. "I
ought to
have noticed you were avoiding it. In fact, I did notice, but
I never
knew you reacted to hay."
"You've never buggered me in a stable
before," he grinned, and then glanced up to register my
reaction.
"That's better," he approved when I only smiled at him.
"I cannot believe it took until 1889 for me to discover how exceedingly
filthy you are," I observed, shaking my head.
"I cannot believe it required five instances of near-Bacchanalian sex
for you to adjust to the notion," he teased me in return.
"Are you going to continue this running tally for long?"
"Actually, I hope one day to lose track."
When
I could not find immediate words to reply to this wonderful remark, he
reddened slightly before springing gracefully to his feet.
Walking
over to the post, he began to reassemble himself into a British
gentleman.
"Holmes?"
"Yes?" he replied as he donned his waistcoat, the black and pewter
damask making his eyes shine like precious stones.
"I should like one aspect of our relations to return to the way they
were."
When
he froze, I realized what I had just said and jumped to my
feet. "I
did not mean it that way--please, let me explain. I have
merely come
to terms with one of my challenges as regards this...well, you called
it an experiment. In any case, I won't stand for it if we
can't be
friends."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. His hands returned to
work on his buttons while he considered my words. "The sort
of friends
who share detective work and a flat in London and the occasional dinner
at Simpson's?"
"And sod one another in stables as often as they can."
He
laughed so hard at this that his mirth actually emerged in the form of
sound, which was very unusual. "You aren't angry at me any
longer," he
said softly, when his merriment had ceased.
"Anger has been supplanted by bliss, confusion, mortification, and
delirium."
"I do not mind when you are annoyed at me, or when you are cross," he
admitted, "but yesterday--oh, confound it all."
"What is it?"
"We are nearly late for Lestrade. Come along, my dear chap,
and we'll just meet his train."
"But
Holmes, you're a mess," I said, a touch of fear striking me.
"I
believe I may well be a mess myself. How will we explain it?"
"I shall think of something," he whispered as he leaned down to kiss me.
"You
don't seem to me as if you are thinking very hard," I pointed out when
his arms slid around my waist once more and his mouth moved to my
throat. "I happen to know what you look like when you are
thinking,
and this is rather far removed."
"I," he said, punctuating his words with soft caresses of his lips, "do
not. Care. What. Lestrade.
Imagines."
"Ought you not to care, just a trifle?" I asked, my hand at the base of
his neck.
"The
man is incapable of abstract thought," he smiled, turning away at
last. "Come along, dear boy. No harm will come to
you. Of that,
please believe me, I have always made absolutely sure."
Our friend's train was an express, and on time to the
very minute. It roared into the tiny station like an emissary
from
another world. When Lestrade leaped out of a first-class
carriage, the
scent of the hunt illuminating his bulldog features, I found myself
more grateful for the familiar sight of him than I was concerned he'd
notice anything amiss.
"Anything good?" he questioned, all three of us shaking hands.
"I
can say without fear of contradiction is it the best thing in years,"
Holmes replied with a sly smile. "We have two hours before we
need
think of starting, and there's a rather palatable dining room in the
inn just this way. Shall we sample their fare?"
"Anything you say, Mr. Holmes. I'm ready for a meal, and I
can see you've been hard at it already today."
When my friend tilted his brows in innocent incomprehension, Lestrade
looked down at Holmes' trouser legs pointedly.
"I
was after a bit of evidence," my companion said with an affable
smile.
Shrugging, he lit a cigarette and offered his case to the two of
us. I
declined, and Lestrade accepted.
"Ha," the official detective chuckled. "No doubt. I
see you've dragged Dr. Watson into your questionable habits."
"Yes, he was good enough to join me."
"Permit me," Lestrade remarked. Reaching forward, he plucked
a wisp of hay from my sleeve.
"Thank you."
"The evidence was a little off the beaten path," Holmes explained.
"Are
you feeling any better?" I inquired. Holmes and I shared a
great
number of secrets, and in fact always had, but they were other people's
secrets. I derived a considerable jolt of satisfaction at
mentioning
one of our own.
My friend raised his brows at me, one side of his mouth curving
up. "Yes, thank you."
"Wrist
acting up again, is it?" Lestrade nodded, smoking placidly as we set
off along the platform and out of the station. "I keep
telling you, if
you'd crawl about on the ground less, you'd be the haler for it."
"No,
it was only a reaction to mown hay. And sometimes crawling
about on
the ground is the only viable recourse," Holmes replied cheerily,
setting off at a brisk pace in the direction of the inn while waving us
both forward.
"Acting a bit peculiar, isn't he, Doctor?" the Yarder muttered when my
friend was out of earshot.
"How
so?" I questioned, alarm striking me without warning. I had
reason to
hope that Holmes and I would be performing acts outside the law for
some time to come, and I could only assume that the novelty of paranoid
suspicion would wear off in a matter of days. At least, so I
prayed.
"It
must be the case he's solved," Lestrade replied sagely. He
shifted his
rather beady eyes in my direction, and then allowed them to slide back
to the ground in thought. "He seems almost...happy."
"Does he?" I breathed. "I hadn't noticed."
"Queerest thing I ever saw. His eyes were shining out of his
head," Lestrade reflected, with another very strange glance at me.
"Well, that's a symptom of hay fever, you know."
For an extremely uncomfortable period, the Inspector remained
completely silent.
"Hay
fever," Lestrade grinned at last. "Well, you are the
Doctor. No doubt
that is it." The little professional quickened his steps, so
that we
three walked in a line, each alone with whatever scattered thoughts he
possessed, until Holmes threw open the door and we entered the old
dark-timbered structure together.
One of
Sherlock Holmes' defects--if, indeed, I may call it a defect, and
frankly I feel I've every right to do so--was that he was exceedingly
loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the
instant of their fulfillment. I had all too often suffered
under it,
but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness, a rug
thrown over our legs and his calf grazing mine, wondering to myself
whether anything in my life would ever make sense again. I
need not
state that our ignorance of what, precisely, we were to do on that
cloudy and clearly dangerous night chafed Inspector Lestrade and me
almost unbearably; and when I combine that uncertainty with the
delectably unholy carnal knowledge I'd just acquired of my friend, who
seemed to have lost the ability to sit more than a quarter inch away
from me, my thrill of nerves at every stride of the horses will be more
easily excused.
Holmes spoke only tersely of guns and of silence
as we walked towards Merripit House, stopping some two hundred yards
distant behind a screen of rocks. I who knew him--I'd just
begun to
convince myself once more of the fact--better than anyone could see
that his every sense stood at full attention, utterly alert to the
dangers which no doubt surrounded us.
"Watson, you've been
inside the house, have you not?" he whispered, catching me by the
forearm. "What are those latticed windows?"
"I think they are the kitchen."
"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"
"That is certainly the dining room."
"You
know the lie of the land best. My dear fellow, just creep
forward
quietly and see what they are doing--but for Heaven's sake be careful,
and be sure you are not seen."
When I did so, I was surprised to
find that only the two men sat at the table, Stapleton talking while
Sir Henry listened distractedly, his lips set in thought.
Nowhere
could I see the lady, and neither could I imagine where she might be,
for all other rooms were dark. As I watched, Stapleton rose
and left
the room making for a barely discernible outhouse many yards away from
the main building. I registered a queer scuffling sound, and
then
Stapleton rejoined Sir Henry. Crawling back behind the cover
of the
straggling rock pile, I conveyed as much to Holmes and Lestrade.
My friend seemed much concerned by the absence of the lady, and at the
same time to be only half-listening.
"Holmes, what is the matter?"
"That bank of fog," he murmured, his face drawn and grave.
"The
one thing upon earth which could have disarranged my plans."
Looking
behind him, I saw that indeed a dense white mass of moisture crept
inexorably toward us, sending wisps and intangible emissaries before
it. The expression of frank chagrin on Holmes' face when he
glanced at
me told me without a single word precisely how perilous the venture had
grown.
"We will best it," I told him softly, "whether your plans alter or
no. Together."
"My dear fellow," he said, regarding me with a look I could not begin
to translate. I waited for more, but he held his peace.
From
that moment forward, we willed the fog to stay in place, at times
falling back before it and at times holding our ground, Holmes nearly
writhing with furious impatience. We crouched shoulder to
shoulder, I
in the center flanked by Holmes and Lestrade. The vapour
swallowed
everything in its path--swallowed the building, so that its roof stood
out like a flag, swallowed the rock bank behind which we'd sheltered,
swallowed us so that only with our heads above the mist could we see
anything at all. It dampened sound as well as sight, for none
of us
registered Sir Henry's exit from Merripit House save Holmes, who had
his ear to the ground. He gave a sharp exclamation, and I
heard him
cock his pistol.
"Look out," he said grimly, standing up to his full and formidable
height. "It's coming!"
Never
in all my life had I even I imagined such a creature as the beast we
pursued that night. Sir Henry walked along edgily, as if
alerted to
the presence of an unseen foe, but when that hound from Hell at last
bounded out of the mist, its jowls glowing and its teeth slavering in
anticipation of its prey, at first he could not even run. He
merely
stood there, frozen with helpless horror, as the frightful apparition
bore down upon him. Then at last he took to his heels.
Holmes
and I fired together, and the monster let loose a howl of
rage. That
sound heartened our spirits like nothing else could have
done. My
friend and I looked at one another, and then Holmes was over the rock
wall and running, running with all his speed, running with every ounce
of strength in that body of his that was nothing but strength, and I
doing my utmost to keep up with him even as I outpaced Inspector
Lestrade. The fog grew ever thicker, and my companion's iron
will
carried him away from me like a creature intended by Nature to do
nothing else but fly across stretches of moorland. In a
moment of
sheer terror I still do not like to recall, I lost sight of
him. I
could see nothing before me but a vast whiteness, as if I were running
through a cloud. I was quite literally blind. And
then a man many
yards away from me began to scream.
I knew beyond a shadow of a
doubt in those few hideous seconds just what my friend was to
me. I
had always loved him, and in years previous had gradually--and
painfully--come to terms with the fact. That had been
nothing, and I
laughed grimly to think of how it had once occupied my mind.
It had
been merely a friendship, a fascination tinged liberally with lust, a
camaraderie built on his dry irony and my easy laughter, his sense of
justice and my love of adventure, his passion for knowledge and mine
for what that knowledge could do. Now he was nothing less
than
lifeblood. He was everything, and he would be until the day
one or the
other of us was dead, and if my gun had failed me I do not doubt I
would have pried that rabid beast off of him with my bare hands.
When
my head broke free of the mist, he was firing the last of five shots
into the savage animal. As it shuddered and twitched, I
pressed my
revolver into its head and pulled the trigger. I cannot think
why.
"Holmes," I gasped.
He must have read something desperate in my eyes. "I'm all
right," he said, breathing heavily.
We tore away Sir Henry's collar. There was no sign of a
wound. We had done it, and just in time.
"What was it?" he managed. His face was ghastly
pale. "What in Heaven's name was it?"
"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. And then Sir Henry
shuddered in relief, and lay quite still.
We
rushed from room to room within the house. Holmes looked
quite as
anxious as I had ever seen him, and it did not take me long to
determine why. Stapleton had surely fled, we reasoned, having
heard
the shots. But if Beryl Stapleton had truly grown fond of our
friend
Sir Henry, and had objected to her husband's bloody business, I did not
like to think of the consequences. At last, my friend put his
hand to
one of the first-floor doors and found it locked. He lost not
a moment
in kicking it down, and in another instant the three of us crowded into
the room.
It had been fashioned into a museum, filled with cases
and cases of specimens under glass. A figure stood--no, it
sagged
heavily, supported only by the bounds which kept it captive--lashed to
a beam in the center of the room. As a shock of disgust
struck me, I
realized it was Stapleton's wife, that he had tied her to a post and
whipped her savagely, and that she was staring at us mutely, her eyes
full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning.
"The brute,"
I thought I heard Holmes say as he crossed the room with four long
strides. He released her head first, moving close enough that
it could
fall to his shoulder, and then he reached behind her to undo her other
bonds. I flew to assist him, and between us it was mere
seconds before
she collapsed into his arms. He lifted her as if she weighed
no more
than the sheets which still enveloped her.
"Is he safe?" she whispered desperately.
"He cannot escape me, madam," Holmes replied.
"No, Sir Henry," she clarified, her eyes tearing. "Not my
husband. Sir Henry. Is he safe?"
"Yes."
"And the hound?"
"It is dead."
She
began weeping, her arms around my friend's neck, he cradling her gently
in an effort not to harm the mass of weals caused by her
husband.
"Thank God," she cried. "Then it is over. I could
have endured it
all--the ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long
as I could cling to the hope I had his love, but now I understand that
in this also I have been his dupe and his tool."
"I know," he
said gently, gazing down at her. His eyes glittered with a
strange and
sympathetic light. In fact, he looked just as he had when
speaking to
Laura Lyons that afternoon. "Be still. I will set
it right, I promise
you. He deserves no sympathy from you. Tell me
where I shall find
him, and I will set it right. You will have
justice. Please, Mrs.
Stapleton. Help me now to find you a little peace."
"The old tin mine in the heart of the mire," she murmured.
"But the fog--how could he see the guiding wands tonight?"
"Thank
you," my friend said, carrying her out the door and down the
stairs.
"My friend the Doctor will see to your injuries. Trust me to
take care
of the rest."
The poor lady was so spent and so mortified by the
time I had cleaned and dressed the worst of her cuts that I gave her a
mild sedative and left her in peace, lying on her bed with the lamps
turned very low. When I emerged into the sitting room, I was
struck
with a sudden fear that Holmes, who was nowhere in sight, may have
rashly gone after Stapleton in the deadly fog. Lestrade sat
at a table
writing lengthy official notes, a glass of brandy at his
elbow. When
he saw me, he rose and poured another glass.
"He's upstairs, talking to one of the maids. Never
fear. I wouldn't have let him out tonight for any money."
Laughing,
I took the drink from him gratefully. "Thank you,
Lestrade. I am very
glad you were here to assist us. I cannot tell you what
comfort it has
given me."
"Oh, it was my honour. Three is better than two, in
some cases. As a matter of fact, Dr. Watson, I don't believe
I need
either of you to remain here any longer. I'll just finish
these notes
for the files and then join you in the morning. Take him home
and put
him to bed."
It was all I could do not to freeze in guilty
apprehension. I looked sharply at the little detective in an
effort to
learn what he'd meant by the statement, and had just decided it was
merely an example of his occasional teasing humour when his face broke
into a broad, affectless smile.
"Tell your friend Mr. Holmes I'm
grateful he brought me into the case. It was one for the
history
books, that's for certain. I'll remember it the rest of my
life, that
I can promise you. And I'm also grateful that Mr. Holmes has
finally
come to his senses. I tell you, I was that close to breaking
down and
knocking some sense into him if he couldn't get it any other way, the
whole affair irked me so badly. Well, you know how he gets
under my
skin, and the man is nothing if not god-awful stubborn.
Plenty of
times I thought it would never happen, and was downright low over it,
but there wasn't anything I could say to the purpose, now was there?"
"I beg your pardon?" I questioned, petrified.
"All
I'm saying is that if crawling about on the ground after a bit of
evidence is what it takes to make him look that way, he'd best keep it
up for a good long spell. I won't say another word against
it. And if
it makes your mind any easier, I also won't bring the subject up again."
"I'll let him know," I whispered, at a complete loss for words.
"In
any event, Doctor, congratulations. A very satisfactory
conclusion, I
think." Lestrade glanced at the clock on the wall and turned
away from
me, his quick little hand smoothing back a strand of his
hair. "And
for the future, you may like to know that he also reacts to meadow
barley. Even worse than hay, from what I recall.
Ends up looking as
if he had the pox, and it doesn't do much for his temper
either. I
shouldn't go after any evidence where that happens to grow."
"Thank you," I managed to say. "How do you--"
"Merely
an amusing anecdote from a stakeout in Wiltshire, Dr. Watson, long
before your time. My own particular lady friend is the same
way with
wild strawberries. I picked her a bunch of them once and we
ended up
in hospital."
"How terrible."
"Go on now," he urged me. "Not much good he'll be to you a
spent ball of nerves."
I
walked in a daze back to the museum where Beryl Stapleton had been held
against her will. My friend had already examined the room,
but he was
folding up the sheets which had bound the lady while speaking softly
with one of the servants about her employer. Having satisfied
himself
he could learn nothing more from the maid, he placed the cloth on a
table, and lit himself a cigarette as the stricken domestic departed.
"Holmes," I said, touching his arm.
"Yes?" he replied, utterly distracted.
"You are coming back to the Hall with me."
"I beg your pardon?" he queried, his usual imperiousness tinged heavily
with exhaustion.
"Lestrade
has these matters well in hand. You have seen to it Mrs.
Stapleton is
safe. The Hound is dead, by your hand. There will
be no pursuing
Stapleton tonight. Sir Henry has already been taken back to
the
Baskerville Hall, by the Stapletons' manservant. And you, my
dear
fellow, cannot be anything other than completely spent."
He managed a vague smile. "I've had less taxing twenty-four
hour periods."
"As have I," I said when he allowed me to take his arm and lead him
downstairs. "You require immediate sleep."
"I
do not require immediate sleep," he countered, running a hand through
his hair. "I require a bath more urgently than I have ever
required
one in my life."
"Then you shall have one," I declared. "And after, to rest."
My
friend looked half dead by the time we arrived back at the
Hall.
Leading him upstairs, I set about meeting our needs. The
household was
far too busy with Sir Henry to take much note of our bedraggled
appearance, but hot water was quickly provided for the both of us and
before half an hour had passed, I was standing in the doorway of
Holmes' bedroom in my dressing gown, watching as he emerged from the
chamber opposite with a towel wrapped about his waist and his black
hair glistening with water.
"You," I said, shaking my head, "are quite unnaturally beautiful."
He
seemed almost startled by the compliment, pulling back the coverlet and
draping himself over the sheets wearily as he threw the towel to the
floor.
"What is wrong?"
"Nothing. It's a memorable phrase. And not one I
can imagine I wear very well, objectively speaking."
"I
have always thought you were, and doubly so now." I sat down
next to
him, smoothing his wet hair from his brow. "How so,
memorable?"
"Merely a whimsical coincidence. I've heard it applied to my
mother."
"You must greatly resemble her, then," I whispered to him.
"You
could ask my brother, if you like. He remembers her better," my friend
murmured. His eyelashes were still bright with moisture from
his wash,
and the circles under his eyes were beginning to appear permanently
carved there.
He had never told me his mother was dead, but in a
sense I had always known it. Even a man as reserved as Holmes
would
have made some reference to his mother in the course of our
relationship, if she had yet lived.
"Perhaps I shall one day, if I can work up the nerve.
Goodnight, my dear fellow."
"Are you staying?" he asked, his eyes opening briefly.
"If you like. If I won't distract you," I smiled.
"You mean if I won't distract you," he yawned. "Please
stay. I've slept alone for quite long enough."
"Holmes,"
I said quietly as I crawled into bed and his head found my shoulder,
"you and I are going to have to talk tomorrow. There are one
or two
things I simply must know. And one or two things I must
apologize for."
"I
can think of nothing you've done in the past year and more which
warrants an apology," he managed. The one or two times I'd
seen him
the worse for drink he'd sounded so, but I had never pressed speech out
of him in such exhausted circumstances before, and so the mystery of
his languid lack of diction at once solved itself.
"You can't mean that. Not after yesterday."
"What was yesterday?"
"Yesterday
is what I am required to apologize for," I said, and once I had stated
the fact, I found I could not stop. "I am not sorry for being
angry
with you. I am not sorry for demanding you treat me with
respect. But
am very, very sorry," I continued, making an extreme effort to keep my
voice in check, "for having said that you had no more regard for me
than a servant or a dog. I am sorry for telling you that if
you ever
had a heart you would long ago have thrown it away, for it would be of
no use to you. I am exceedingly sorry for having said that I
would
leave Baker Street, no matter how angry I was. And I am most
of all
sorry," I finished brokenly, "for having said that the years I have
spent with you were a ruinous waste of my time. Please say
you will
forgive me for that. I did not mean it."
"I already have," he
muttered. I could feel him drifting off to sleep even as he
said it.
"The man I am now, I mean. You were talking to another
person, after
all."
Stapleton, it became clear to us the next
day, could never be traced no matter how grim and determined my friend
was. There were no prints to be followed in that sea of
slime.
However, there were no prints beyond the muck either, and I saw Holmes
grow greater and greater in his certainty that his foe had never reach
the oasis of firm ground, but had perished in the morass he thought his
saving refuge. To that extent, at least, we began to consider
the case
closed.
After a dousing in mud in connection with the discovery
of Sir Henry's missing boot, Holmes lost no time in obtaining another
bath. Baskerville Hall, however, had become something of a
dismal
place, for Sir Henry's nerves were quite shattered and the servants
very anxious over him. After passing a few bleak hours
indoors, for we
did not plan to depart until the following day, my friend's remarkable
eyes darted in my direction.
"How about a walk?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly
tense.
"I'd like nothing better, provided we steer clear of mires," said I.
"Agreed, and entirely. I'll meet you outside in five minutes."
Walking
over the tufts of grey weeds and the jagged, sinister hills with my
friend was a welcome relief whether he was inclined to speak or
not.
But after twenty minutes of complete silence, passing by great masses
of ferns on the rock walls and staring at the progression of yellow
foliage under our feet, I began to wonder whether he was
merely
melancholy or instead was dwelling upon a topic he did not want to
introduce.
"I had something of a fright yesterday," I began hesitantly.
"I think we all did," he replied, sounding a little surprised.
"No, I mean--I lost sight of you. On the moors.
When you were pursuing the hound."
"Oh," he said. "Did you?"
"Sir
Henry was screaming, and I...I don't want to trouble you.
Nothing
happened, of course. But I found that now our relations
have...changed, I did not like to lose sight of you in pursuit of a
deadly beast. Not at all. I was surrounded by the
cloud cover and I
felt as if I would never see you again."
"Strange. But I
suppose it's only natural that, having changed the nature of our
association, other things will change as well." I could not
begin to
read his expression, and in any case he was making sure not to look at
me.
"Having changed the nature of our association, yes," I
agreed. "I am still not entirely certain how that came to
pass."
"I believe it was my fault," he said with the hint of a
smile. "I seem to recall kissing you."
"Yes,
that had a very great deal to do with it." Breathing in the
cold air,
I reminded myself to be patient. After all, the sun was
setting, the
moss dripped with moisture, the air was bracing and fresh, and sooner
or later I would get somewhere. I had hoped to avoid direct
questioning, but that dream was beginning to seem ever more
distant.
"I would appreciate knowing a bit more detail regarding how that came
about."
"Well, to be entirely honest, I have always had
something of a preoccupation with military men. Strapping,
heroic,
sun-darkened military men. The close-cropped moustache
variety is
particularly devastating, but not an absolute necessity.
Merely a
grace note. The soldierly bearing and air of foreign climes
are
decided musts in this particular field of study, however. I
had...let
me see...two others before this, but for heartbreakingly brief
periods. And you've a number of other very tangible charms,"
he said
lightly. "I don't suppose you imagine you've slept with
hundreds of
people without possessing a profound visual appeal."
"I don't--I
never said--thank you," I stammered. "Holmes, I am beginning
to think
that your assumptions regarding my past lovers are perhaps a trifle
exaggerated."
"You deny it, then?"
"Really, Holmes, I--"
"I didn't think so. But please, don't tell me. Just
at the
moment, I am horrified of knowing the concrete facts," he quipped.
"I gathered that, although I don't see why. So you pounced on
me because of my war record."
He laughed, the silent and self-deprecating one. "I was
unspeakably curious just where I would find that scar."
"And
now you know the answer to that burning question. Which, for
some
reason, you could not wait another moment in agony over. At a
quarter
to eleven, the night before last."
"It took a weight off my mind," he conceded tightly.
"I am very glad. But Holmes, I really do wish to know what
you want from me."
As
a reward for this directness, he sighed distractedly. "Why
would you
ask that?" He was beginning to look as skittish as a
colt. A slender,
absurdly well-formed colt with a black mane and storm-tossed, piercing
eyes.
"Because I would like to know whether my life at Baker
Street is going to include a great deal more illegal carnality in the
coming months," I said, attempting to ease his nerves.
"Ha. I would like it to, yes. That's one of the
reasons I kissed you."
"And the other reasons?"
"It was a terribly difficult biological urge to resist, for all its
perversion," he deflected, looking very nearly afraid.
"But
why, Holmes?" I demanded wearily, desperation beginning to colour my
voice. "Why? I am very possibly the happiest man in England, and
certainly the happiest on the moors, but what possessed you? I need to
know."
All was silence for perhaps a minute, and then Holmes
cleared his throat determinedly. "I did it because you were
right," he
said quietly. He was staring down at his hands. "When you were shouting
at me so lividly. You were right."
"I was right about nothing,
my dear fellow. About which vicious accusation could I
possibly have
been right?" I asked helplessly.
"I used you, and yet I did
not trust you," he replied, wincing at the words even as he spoke them.
He stopped walking abruptly. "I used you as a sounding board,
as a
trusty comrade, as a conscience. I used you for so many things, Watson.
You were the one thing in my life that mattered, my dear fellow, the
one irreplaceable thing I had, the one thing that if broken or
destroyed could not be mended, and I used you for thousands of
purposes. You sat across from me at Baker Street, you helped me with
cases, you shared the claret, you tolerated my papers, you stood on the
stairs to listen to me play the violin and you imagined I didn't
realize you were there. I used you for every moment that invested my
days with any meaning, and I did not trust you enough to know it."
He
ceased speaking and glanced at my face, seeming very fearful of what he
might find there. "It was absurd. Damn it, my dear fellow, it simply
could not go on. When you grew so angry at me, I realized I'd no right
to expect you to stay when I did not trust you with the most basic
tenet of my existence. Which is that the sun rises and sets with
you.
For God's sake, there is nothing outside of you."
"Holmes," I whispered, but he held up a hand.
"I
have seen enough men abuse the trust placed in them, giving none in
return, using their betters and then discarding them without a thought
of remorse. Stapleton was an all too apt example, I'm
afraid. There
have been many others in my life. I am not that
man. Damn it, I
cannot be that man, Watson. Therefore, I will not behave like
that man
from this time onward. I cannot apologize enough for having
acted so
in the first place, but I have reminded myself of who I am and now I
will do my best to act the part. I will not be your worst
mistake."
His
head was cocked very slightly to the side, and his body had the look of
barely suppressed nervous energy evident only when he was throwing
himself on lawns and walkways, crawling about in the twigs in search of
a matchstick or spent revolver casing. Of course, I had only seen this
posture when he was fully clothed. I wondered if it there was any
possibility of my ever seeing what happened to the sinewy ropes of his
lower abdomen when such a fit was upon him, and considered what sort of
mystery in the privacy of the bedroom could bring on such a mood.
"John Watson, please say something."
"What would you like me to say?" I asked him gently. "'I told you so'
seems overly smug, after all."
"I
would like you to say that I am the only man in your world, and that
your needs will be satisfied hereafter by me and me alone, because the
thought of sharing you makes me physically ill, you may have noticed,"
he confessed in a rather brittle tone, "but that event is appearing
increasingly less likely."
"No, I am not going to say that."
"Well,
whatever you are going to say, say it now, for God's sake," he snapped.
His face was quite unnaturally pale, his sharply angled features
sternly schooled.
"When you played the violin," I said slowly,
"those beautiful airs with which you would occasionally fill the
sitting room, I would creep down from my chamber to listen from the
stairs, as you said. I did this for a very simple reason. I could not
stay in my room when such haunting melodies were drifting out of the
parlour; and I could not look you in the face while you were playing
them without your discovering I was in love with you. So I remained out
of sight. I would like to see you play them, if you are willing, when
we arrive home. I've longed to see you play them," I finished.
"You're in love with me?" he repeated softly.
"Yes,
I love you," I said. Then I was suddenly terrified all over
again. "Is
that more of the softer emotions than you would care to hear about in
future? I only thought, because--be assured that I don't have
to--"
"No, no, it shouldn't be a problem," he interrupted me
hastily. "I suffer from a parallel affliction."
"Oh."
We
both of us suddenly grew very intrigued by the landscape. It
was as
wild and desolate as ever in the sunset, and it was the most beautiful
world I had ever laid eyes on.
"I suppose you are wondering how many," Holmes teased me, after a
lengthy pause.
"Men you've fallen in love with? I wasn't, actually," I
answered, surprised that he had been wrong.
"I'll tell you anyway," he said. "One."
I
was speechless for quite a time before I found my voice once
more.
"Are you telling me this because you think I would be angry had there
been others?"
"No. I am telling you because you are my friend,
and I trust you. And because it explains a degree of my
reluctance to
approach you. And because you will forgive me more of my
trespasses if
you know it. And because of a very endearing quirk you have."
"What is that, I wonder?"
"Yes, you do wonder," he murmured. "That's it
exactly. But you don't ask."
"Is that what you were doing in the stable?" I inquired, a realization
striking me. "Trusting me?"
"Yes,
I could not express it better. It went quite well, I
thought. You are
exceptionally good at what you do." He shot me a slyly
flirtatious
look that I have yet to develop any defenses against.
"Apart from the fact I shoved you into a mountain of hay."
"Well,
perhaps you'll spare me that detail in the future." He smiled
at me
and closed the distance between us, taking my face in his
hands. "Tell
me again."
"I vow not to expose you to any more hay," I said seriously, looking up
into eyes like the fogs upon the moor.
"Not that part," he said, kissing either of my eyelids.
"I told you so?"
"No, and if I were you, I would recall that I am not always so sociable
as I am at this moment."
"You are not going to remain this way, then?" I asked hesitantly.
"I
will remain this way underneath, always, if you can see it under the
cynicism, arrogance, melancholy, impatience, and self-importance which
will doubtless mask it periodically. I apologize for them all
in
advance. Please tell me again," he whispered.
"I love you," I told him. "But I think you said it rather
better. There is nothing outside of you."
I
do not know, to this day, what would have happened if Holmes had not
used me rather too egregiously as a pawn in his gambit against the
forces threatening Sir Henry Baskerville, or what would have happened
if I had not finally lost my temper entirely. I like to
think,
however, that the cracks would have shown eventually, and that even
without Stapleton's schemes, we would have ended as we are
now. It is
not mere naive optimism on my part to believe so, either. One
way or
another, one of us must have let something slip. For I know
the way I
feel about him, and I know that any man who could kiss me the way he
did on the moor that night, his heart pounding as if he lived and
breathed for me alone, could not have kept such a monumental secret
forever. Murder will out, it is said, and I have seen
it. And so will
love, for I have seen that too.
Epilogue: Baker Street,
nine years later.
The
door had closed. The sound of his footsteps descending our
staircase
rang out as a firm, sure tread. For a very long moment, I did
not
trust myself to look at anything in particular. My eyes
wandered
across bookshelves and the patterns of our carpet. Finally,
helpless
to do anything else, I shot a sidelong glance at Holmes. He
sat with
his lips slightly parted, staring into space, slippered feet tucked
somewhere in the folds of his dressing gown. When our mantel
clock
struck a quarter hour, he came to himself and, clearing his throat, he
returned my gaze. We both opened our mouths to speak, and
then both
thought better of it.
"I'm sorry--what did you intend to say, my dear fellow?"
"No, by all means, go on," he urged, glancing down at his fingernails.
"You were first," I attempted, the weakness of the argument echoing in
my ears.
"Not at all. Pray continue."
"A very successful end to the case. I congratulate you."
"Oh, come now, Watson!" he cried, steely eyes shining like
rapiers. "That is not what you were going to say!"
We
sat in silence, listening to the crackling fire and the little creaks
and murmurs of the old brick structure. I wondered if I
trusted my
nonchalance to stand up and pour us two glasses of port, and decided to
wait.
"Well, it is not strictly what I was going to say," I
admitted after a long pause. I picked at the arm of my chair
absently. "What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
"You were about to say something."
"As were you," he replied in great exasperation.
"Very well, then," I sighed. "I was merely going to say
that...."
"Yes?" he prodded, the edge of his shapely mouth angling itself into a
smile.
"That Captain Crocker is," I said hesitantly, "very possibly...hang it,
how shall I put this? He is...."
"He is a minor god," my companion finished for me.
My
mouth closed abruptly. Then I began to laugh
helplessly. Holmes was
laughing as well, I thanked Heaven, the silent, private laugh which
wrinkled the corners of his eyes and tilted his head back with
merriment.
"You do not think he is--"
"No!" Holmes exclaimed.
"What a waste."
At this remark he laughed all the harder, drawing his legs into his
chest and wriggling in his chair.
"The face of that man could cause traffic accidents," I said
ruefully. "Did you see his hands?"
"I am a master of observation," he replied, "but I confess it was the
expanse of chest which struck me first."
"Good Heavens, I know. And that hair. And he had
a--"
"Dimple, but only on the left side of his face."
"Pale blue eyes."
"To be honest, I am not entirely certain how he fit through our front
door. He appears to defy the laws of physics."
I
bent over double, my chest aching and my eyes beginning to
tear. I
could hear Holmes leaping from his chair and pouring the glasses of
port I had longed for only moments before.
When I raised my
eyes, he was holding the glass out to me with a stern
expression. "You
are not allowed to follow him. He loves Mary
Fraser. And you are
mine."
"You are
not
allowed to follow him," I retorted as he took up occupancy between my
knees. "She returns his affections, and I am extremely
jealous."
"It's a very great pity."
"I could not agree more."
"Think of what the rest of him must be like."
"Actually, I am making a sincere effort not to."
We
sat like that for a brief time, slowing becoming aware that we were
both exhausted. I rubbed his silken head gently, smoothing
the thick
black waves arcing back from the elegant point in the exact center of
his brow.
"His hands were impressive, but yours are exquisite," I pointed out,
drawing one of them up for closer inspection.
"Thank you."
He edged his feet closer to the fire and leaned into me.
"Your eyes are far bluer than his, you know," he observed.
"His were rather a seafoam. Nothing comparable to yours."
"If you say so," I smiled.
The
fire was fading slowly, but I was not concerned much about
it. The
room was quite warm, and we would light the one in Holmes' bedroom
before much time had passed.
"Did you know," he asked suddenly,
shifting his head so he could see me better, "that I adore you,
completely and comprehensively?"
I cleared my throat and brushed my hand along the side of his sculpted
face.
"I seem to recall you having mentioned something of the kind, yes."
"Ah. I apologize."
"You've no need to. I never tire of it."
"Well, in that case," he declared, sitting up straight again, "I wonder
if you would mind joining me for a spot of recreation."
"What sort?"
"To be honest, one or two activities suggested themselves to my mind
when the Captain was here."
I could not refrain from a moment's teasing. "I don't know if
I
like the idea. Will you be thinking of Captain...what was--"
"His first name?" My friend's eyes were still shining
wickedly. "Jack. Jack Crocker."
"Jack, yes. I would hate to feel that I am standing in for a
minor god."
Rising,
he put his hands on my knees and cocked his head with a disbelieving
expression. "Thank you. I am very flattered, truly,
and I shall not
forget the compliment you have given me this evening. But can
you
seriously suggest that I am possessed of such abstract thought, such
detached mental capacity, such absolute concentration, that I am
capable of thinking about anyone else while you are in my bed?"
I
shook my head in weary amazement, setting my glass on the side table
next to me. "With your turn of phrase, not to mention the
rest of you,
you could have had a Crocker of your own. You could have had
anyone.
A minor god, as you put it. The most exceptional man in
England. You
know that, don't you?"
"Yes, of course I do. I have you,
haven't I?" he replied softly. Taking my port glass, he
twined it into
the hand which held his own while he retrieved the bottle on the way to
his bedroom. He paused in the doorway to smile at
me. "The condition
cuts both ways, you know. If you lapse into flights of fancy
with the
Captain, I will know of it. And I am not speaking of errors
so
palpable as referring to me as Jack. I will know of it
through far
subtler signs."
Doubtless he was correct, for I regret to say
that my friend's trick of seeing into my thoughts had not diminished
over time as I'd hoped it would. This occasionally led to
awkward
moments on my part, no matter what sort of efforts I made to keep my
expression unreadable. I am happy to report that in this
particular
instance it was of no consequence, however. By the time I had
crossed
his threshold, the very existence of Jack Crocker had disappeared from
my mind.
Read the sequel: A Man of Questionable Morals