It began, as so many of life's most significant moments begin, with a
vocabulary discussion.
As
I walked very carefully, one foot in front of the next in the familiar
back-and-forth progression, up our seventeen steps that evening, it was
with a blackened eye, a box full of broken glass tucked beneath my arm,
and a bottle of 1867 Château Lafite in my opposite
hand. All of these
circumstances will become clear in due course, I expect. I
hope they
will, as I have a ghastly hangover. Also, my vision is
blurred, and my
memory in rather poor straights. But nevertheless I will not
tell this
story the way Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, the Independent
Consulting Detective Himself, sage expert upon any subject he happens
to light upon even when he knows nothing whatever about them, would
wish me to. Those days, I rejoice to state with finality, are
passed.
Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street no longer cows me as he once
did.
I shall, therefore, tell this story backwards, as it best pleases
me. Backwards stories are invigourating to the mind.
As
I say, then, it was in a state of supreme drunkenness that I at last
succeeded in besting that flight of godforsaken steps, having tripped
slightly on numbers eight and thirteen, and arrived in our sitting
room. The site of all our countless communal goings-on (the
goings-on
I should have preferred to term "affairs" in every sense of the word)
lay before me, just as dimly lit as Sherlock Holmes doubtless wished it
to be. The dining table was laid for a splendid supper, with
a brace
of pheasant long since grown cold, and a dish of sliced beef, as well
as two finer-than-usual place settings. A single glass had
been used,
by my friend, and then left on the sideboard. The food was
untouched.
"Holmes," I called out impatiently, swaying a little.
Holmes emerged from his bedroom, rubbing a damp cloth over his face,
neck, and shoulders, and stopped in his tracks.
He
had obviously not long been back from his surveillance--masquerading as
a stevedore, I believe, though I cannot bring myself to care--but he
had managed to remove all of his clothing from the waist up and cover
himself with a gorgeously fluttering half-open dressing gown.
This is
the sort of thing which used absolutely to madden me: Holmes
had sworn
to return by seven for our mutual feast, and here it was ten in the
evening and he had not even finished wiping the soot from his
face.
And yet somehow, somehow, he had managed to find
the time to
render himself half-naked. It would have been disheartening
if not
utterly typical. To be expected. De
rigeur. It was what
had driven me out of the sitting room and into the wild in the first
place, for I have better things to do than wait for a self-obsessed
genius to glance at a clock. Or at least, I enjoy pretending
so.
Now
he stared at me in open shock. My friend had thoroughly
cleaned his
less sensitive skin, but the area rimming his startled and ungodly
brilliant eyes, just beneath the lashes, was still blackened slightly.
"You look like a twopenny streetwalker," I said pleasantly.
"Here is your birthday present." I held out the wine.
After
a stunned blink at my unprecedented remark, Holmes' long legs reached
me in three strides. He turned my chin up to the
light.
"What in God's name has happened to you, my dear chap?" he demanded.
"An
altercation," I replied as he took the box and the bottle from me,
setting them on his chemical table. "A round of
fisticuffs. You
should see the other fellow. I would have thought you could
deduce
such a thing for yourself, you know. I was not about to
inform you I
walked into a door."
I took in the dying fire, the ticking of
our clock, the pleasant aromas of roast fowl and tobacco which lingered
in the air. A very pleasant setting for our soon-to-be-had
chat, I
thought. Then I rubbed at my jaw. Nothing
more than a slight bruise.
I knew my eye probably looked dreadful, but that was an issue for
another occasion. Just at the moment, I needed to have a
friendly and
confidential word with my flatmate upon a highly sensitive
subject.
Then all would be well.
Holmes returned with a medical kit and a small bowl of water.
I looked at his hands, holding the objects.
Of
course I did. What startling news there? I stare at
his hands the way
some men stare at explicit photography. As for me, an entire
diorama
of naked men and nubile young females, hard and wet respectively,
displaying themselves in the most lewd and mutual sharing of
Bacchanalian lust, feeding each others' every orifice while Jove in the
form of an erect stallion looked on with relish, would not have
distracted me for so much as a single second if Sherlock Holmes' index
finger also happened to be in the room within my line of
sight. Why
mince words on the subject?
"Sit," he snapped, nodding at the
settee. When I did, he knelt before me, soaking a cloth in
the water.
"Who was it?" he growled.
"An old acquaintance at my club."
From
closer up, the kohl-like border around his sparkling eyes was still
more arousing. Naturally it was. His features are
hardly feminine,
but they are undoubtedly beautiful and thus when enhanced, more
so. My
friend's eyes are a still worse temptation than his hands.
Had I not
interrupted him from his wash, I would never have known it, but
apparently the only thing more devastating than Sherlock Holmes is
Sherlock Holmes wearing eye liner. He looked mysterious,
enchanting,
and vaguely Eastern. Confound the man.
"On second thought,
you don't look like a twopenny streetwalker at all. You look
like a
much more expensive one. The sort who dress up as geishas and
sing
pornographic versions of Gilbert and Sullivan melodies before one beds
them."
"Watson," he said in stark horror. Then he leaned forward,
fine nostrils flaring a little. "Watson, are you drunk?"
"Oh, yes," I nodded. "Well, no, I was
drunk, half an hour ago. I do beg your pardon. Now
I am decimated."
Holmes
gritted his teeth, got a better hold on the cloth, and strove to
conceal his disapproval of my timing as he raised his hand to clean the
cut above my eye. I could not wholly blame him. It
was his birthday,
after all. Even if he had missed the beginning of
it. Intentionally.
Again.
Have I ever mentioned that I am unhealthily preoccupied
with my flat mate's eyes? I am. And so I moved past
the question of
eye makeup to the colour of the eyes within that border. They
were
very angry with me, hard as his will, which brought a metallic hue to
them. I embarked on the wonderful exercise of deciding which
metal in
particular, just at the moment, taking into account his mood.
Steel?
Iron? Silver? Platinum?
Chromium? Nickel?
Aluminium, I decided happily.
"What on God's earth are you thinking about?"
Small wonder he had not been able to follow me. Logic is
common. Perception is rare.
"I am pondering the metallic question."
His scowl deepened in confusion. "You mean the bi-metallic
question?"
"No. I mean the metallic one. And I'm sorry," I
said. "It needed to be done."
"The fight?"
"No, the Scotch, you ridiculous man. A third of a bottle at
least, and that was after the wine."
"I will take your word as regards its necessity, provided you tell me
what happened."
I
sighed as the cloth soothed away the dried blood on my brow.
He owns a
remarkable delicacy of touch. It must have something to do
with the
parallel delicacy of his hands. Have I mentioned his
hands? Holmes'
hands are God's proof of benevolence to mankind, me in
particular.
They...but I digress.
"Well, in the first place, there is the box of broken glass," I
began. "It belongs to you. A gift."
"Thank you."
"You are most welcome."
"Why do I possess a box of broken glass, may I ask?"
"Because
I purchased for you a case of vials and instruments and pipettes for
your chemical studies, and while at my club they fell to the floor off
a table by accident and broke into hundreds of merry little pieces."
"Oh," he said softly. "My dear fellow, you didn't have to--"
"No,
I didn't have to at all, but you seem to forget that you are the
untouchable Bohemian encased in the glass sarcophagus of your own
invulnerability, while I am the kind-hearted physician who keeps
insisting on throwing himself prostrate at the slippery facade of your
solitude, sliding off its sheer face and breaking my ankles
repeatedly."
"Breaking your ankles?"
"Stop
interrupting. And don't stare at me like that, you look
enough like a
dollymop at the moment as it is without that wide-eyed,
doe-in-an-opium-den expression. In any event, the old
acquaintance of
whom I spoke asked me what had been inside, and I told him, and I said
the gaiety of the occasion would not be diminished by the loss of a bit
of glass. Then he chuckled at the word gaiety,
which I did
not understand at first. After he explained his
joke, I understood it
rather better, and we fought. Then I went out and bought
you this
alternative birthday present, the 1867 Château
Lafite Lafite you see before
you. Fetch it here, please."
"Doctor," Holmes grated through
his teeth, "I am astonished at a number of things you have said to me
this evening, but not least your generosity. How the devil do
you mean
to afford a bottle of 1867 Château Lafite?"
"I can't afford it,"
I agreed cheerily, "which is why I took the step--between the fight and
the purchase, mind--of making an extremely foolhardy bet on a
cockfight. Happy birthday."
"Stop saying that."
"Cockfight? Does the word make you uncomfortable?"
"No.
Happy birthday. And Watson, for Heaven's sake, we've been
over this.
There is a reason your chequebook is locked in my drawer."
"Yes,"
I assented as he went for the bottle, shaking his head all the
while.
"The reason my chequebook is locked in your drawer is that you are the
western hemisphere's most dominant narcissist. Now, open the
bottle
before I lose my patience with you entirely."
Holmes appeared at
this point to have misplaced a good deal of his ability to drive the
conversation in his desired direction to the exclusion of all
others.
It may have had to do with pure, unadulterated shock. And so
he opened
the bottle, pouring two small glasses, using his already christened
glass and a new one from the sideboard for me, with rapturously elegant
hands.
Have I ever mentioned Sherlock Holmes' hands? God or
Satan alone could never have created them. I suppose the two
worked,
for once, in concert. A worthier project could not have been
found in
this or any universe.
"Bring me the wine," I commanded.
Holmes returned to stand before me. He handed me my glass.
"Now, drain it," I continued, setting him a fine example myself.
The shock was supplanted by anger.
"That is a tremendously expensive vintage you just treated like a dram
of gin," my friend snapped.
"Trust
me." I rose with great difficulty, returned my glass to the
sideboard
with still more difficulty, and resumed my place on the sofa with
greater difficulty still. "Drink it. You need a
drink. You trust me
with your very life, Sherlock Holmes, and this has a direct bearing on
the subject. The subject of your life, that is.
Drink the
sodding Château Lafite and we can get on
with it."
Holmes obeyed me with two swallows. Then set his glass back
on the dark wood and crossed his arms defiantly.
"What did your acquaintance say to so upset you?" he demanded.
"He said," I explained blithely, "that you were a homosexual."
Holmes went utterly white.
"He what?"
"A
man who sleeps with other men, not because he is intoxicated and a
clever rent boy has taped his privates to his backside, but because he
truthfully desires the male form, and has sought it out deliberately."
"I know the definition of the word homosexual," he snapped
viciously. Then he placed a hand over his mouth and gazed at
me.
I had never so completely surprised him. It was magical.
"He said I..."
"Was
an invert," I went on, finishing what must have been his thought for
him out of charity. "A fruit. A queer.
The sort who are beginning to
be labeled gay. Therein lay the joke,
you see. Gaiety."
"And you..."
"I said he was wrong."
After
several more seconds of thought on this topic, Holmes returned to the
sideboard. He poured a gigantic Scotch whiskey, a wine-sized
draft of
whiskey, in (appropriately) his wine glass, and drank it in three
swallows. I watched his throat muscles
constricting. It had been
admirably done. Then he refilled his glass
with Château Lafite,
brought the bottle with him, restored my portion as well, and knelt
once again before the settee to finish nursing me back to health.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But it needed to be done."
"The Scotch?"
"No, the fight," he retorted. "I am deeply sorry you were
hurt,
my dear boy, upon my life I am, but it would never do for--"
"Of course not. And in any event his suggestion was
repulsive."
Holmes
went silent, dabbing at my brow tenderly. Like
a gentle nursemaid.
Like a loving helpmate. Like a caressing spirit.
Like a very, very
gay man.
"He was obviously making the implication that you troll
about, a mandrake on holiday, picking up sodomites as if they were your
afternoon mail. Disgusting."
The lovely arched line of my
friend's lips tightened, but he held his tongue. I was
beginning to
admire him still more, if possible. It was a remarkable
display of
willpower even for him. That sort of flinty resolve
might have won me
an empire hundreds of years ago, had his spirit landed in the craggy,
imperial body of Alexander the Great. It was a decided shame,
really.
I could have been made a god by this point in my life, which would have
been a lark, and not entirely undeserved. But I digress.
"Have you ever considered conquering Persia?"
"I--"
"Never
mind. In any case, the very idea of you in one of those
clubs, Holmes,
arching an eyebrow at a virile young blond wearing a green carnation,
an implicit signal that you would like to bend him over in a washroom
while two of his other friends watched you at work, well...it quite
boiled my blood, I need hardly tell you."
"Precisely. You need
hardly tell me. Therefore, cease doing so," he said
icily. "I might
also have cause to remind you that you are under the influence of
copious--"
"I mean to say, the concept that you, of all
people, should spend your time buggering attractive young men is
frankly impossible."
"Why?" he snarled, dropping the sodding cloth at
last.
I thanked God for that, with all my heart.
"Why is it impossible, Watson?"
I raised my eyebrows. It hurt. So I
stopped.
"Because you are in love with me. That
is why it is impossible, Holmes. The man you wish to bugger
sits
before you in your parlour inches away, not out in some ghastly
gentleman's club."
Holmes was silent. Very silent. So silent
that the silence screamed in my ears. The word the silence
was
screaming was, quite discernibly, gay.
"You are," I
expounded, "the ponciest tosser to have ever minced his way into a pair
of trousers. You are gayer than Stanley Hopkins when he sings
second
tenor in the policeman's chorus wearing his dress uniform.
You are as
queer as a public schoolboy with a penchant for Greeks. But
you love
me, as I said, so I shall allow it to pass."
The silence only grew.
"Let
me explain," I said, leaning forward with my fingertips together in
imitation of the world's brightest, gayest consulting
detective. "I
myself am enamored of the male cock, Holmes. I'm quite fond
of the
things. Can't seem to get enough of them, in fact, and I
stick them in
all sorts of--well, let us just say that I find creative uses for
them. Some might call it a craft, but I prefer to think of it
as an
art. The art of...what shall we call it?
Cockfighting. There. I
embrace the art of cockfighting. And what I would like to
know right
now is, would you prefer that I bend over the arm of this settee with
one of Mrs. Hudson's embroidered pillows between my teeth, or take you
into your room and bugger you senseless? There's a lovely
pillow just
here--look, pansies!...perfect--or else I take you in the bedroom and
have my way with you. You're quite a masterful type, I have
found,
which means you are either going to prove a lover in whom dominance,
force, and tenderness are irresistibly mixed, or else a pliant thing of
infinite grace who wants nothing more than a strong man inside you to
rob you of your habitual control. It's one of the
two. You're
undoubtedly splendid at it, whatever your answer. But go on
and tell
me which it is, I haven't a preference. I love you too, you
see. And
fortunately, they both involve cocks.
"Let's put it to a vote,"
I continued in desperation when he drained his wine, reached out and
drained mine, and then walked to the sideboard to drain the rest of the
bottle back into the now-empty glasses. "There are only two
of us, so
if we reach a tie there might be some trifling awkwardness,
but I can
always wire Lestrade, as he knows us both better than anyone.
Hand me
the telegraph forms, I've worked out the message in my mind.
'To
Inspector G. Lestrade. Re: sodomy. Does Sherlock
Holmes strike you as
a man whose personality would materially benefit from taking
it up
the--"
That was the moment he decided to kiss me. I might have
quibbled over his timing, had my tongue not just then been stealing the
breath from his lungs. And my heart not been racing and
flying
simultaneously. And his hands, those bloody hands,
been running up and down my thighs.
Suddenly
he sat back on his haunches, his lips and cheeks reddened and the
kohl-like line along his lashes smudged slightly. I have
never seen
anything so delectable in all my days. Confound the man.
"This is all very sudden," he breathed.
"It
isn't sudden at all, you great buggering prat. It's years in
the
making, for no reason other than the fact you can't seem to either see
or observe a homosexual when he is leaning with both hands against your
own bookcase with his trousers round his oft-broken ankles."
"In all fairness, I think I would have noticed that."
"Perhaps I exaggerate. Drink more wine, you'll come round to
my view of the subject."
He brought both glasses over, full to the brim, and we eradicated
them. I looked at him.
He stared back. Grey-eyed, long-limbed, and beautiful.
"If
you don't make a decision soon, I am taking an enormous bite out of
this beautifully rendered tussie-mussie," I observed, reaching for a
pillow.
"Well, it is my birthday," he drawled, vaguely
breathless. "Suppose you do the heavy lifting on this
occasion, and I
shall promise to oblige you on other holidays?"
"This isn't a holiday. It's your birthday, you arrogant
donkey."
"It's Twelfth Night. And my offer stands."
"Which holidays are mine?"
"I
am willing to rodger you into ecstasies on Christmas, Bank Holidays,
Easter, Bonfire Night, and every other American Independence Day."
This
kiss was rather better than my previous, as I had risen and the force
of my body knocked him back into the sideboard very
inelegantly. I
heard the sound of a wine glass shattering. That was to be
expected, a
casualty of war. I tore the gown from his shoulders, leaving
his torso
bare and pale and muscled and panting with desire. Meanwhile,
I was
admittedly too intoxicated to know how he had done it, but he
seemed to
have gotten my shirt nearly off and somehow his belt was
undone. He is
known for his cleverness in many spheres. Then again, perhaps
I had
done that. If I had, it had been the right
decision. I congratulated
myself. While I was congratulating myself, I shoved my hand
into his
open trousers and gripped at one of my favourite items in the
world.
The lips beneath my own parted with a strangled little animal sound,
and the toes of his bare feet curled slightly.
"You," I growled tenderly, "have been wasting my time."
I
had lost my tie by this juncture, and my collar, and most of my buttons
were either unfastened or missing, so his head fell forward as his hot
mouth sought out my collarbone, his breath coming raggedly against my
shoulder.
"If I apologize prettily enough, will you skip to the part you referred
to earlier, in my bedroom?" he laughed.
"Yes. Commence apologizing."
"I am sorry for not noticing a broken-ankled indorser leaning
against my own bookshelves with his trousers down."
"Not pretty enough."
"I am sorry for wasting a single second which I might have spent in
your arms?"
"Perfect. This way."
"Watson, there's glass every--"
Had
I not still been wearing my boots and he been barefooted, and had I not
been very, very drunk, I may not have pulled it off. But it
seemed the
ideal occasion for me to grip that impossibly svelte waist with both my
considerably more masculine hands and lift him bodily over the broken
glass, carrying him two feet past the scattered shards. He is
composed
of nothing but six foot three inches of muscle, so lifting Sherlock
Holmes is not a trivial enterprise, but that did not occur to me at the
time. He was less drunk than I, although beginning to match
me as the
alcohol absorbed into his system, so when once he might have struggled,
he simply wrapped his legs around my waist, which was much
easier.
When that little move had been achieved and I had slid my hands down to
his backside, it was remarkably easy, in fact, for a man of my
strength. So I carried him into his bedroom and deposited him
flat on
his back none too gently, diving down to ravish his lips
as we
descended.
"I was wondering something," I hissed as I stroked
my hand over his breast, lingering over his pectoral definition and the
sweet nub of darker flesh. He had neglected to release me
with his
legs, so I saw no point in going anywhere for a brief while.
"No, I'm not actually a bottom, but this opportunity is too precious to
waste."
"Not
that. I had assumed that. I had assumed that,
following this
encounter, hansom travel will be uncomfortable for me for a minimum of
six months."
"Make it nine. What were you wondering?"
"I
was wondering if you have been with other men since I fell in love with
you. Because if you have, you are in a world of trouble."
"Did you fall in love with me within two years?"
"I think so. The precise figure is hard to recall just now,
but it's very likely."
"In that case, no."
"How are you so certain?"
He
sat up a little, his fingertips caressing my cheek. "Because
two years
ago I found myself in bed with a man, and absolutely incapable of
continuing the encounter without calling him John."
I covered his hand with my own, a mist rising before my eyes.
It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.
"Was his name in fact John?"
"That was the whole trouble. His name was Eric."
"How awkward."
In
some fashion, I will never know for certain, Sherlock Holmes rolled his
entire body so that I flipped onto my back as he knelt above
me. Then
he was gone, vanished without trace. Something was happening
in the
region of my shoes. But not for very long, because then my
feet were
bare and my trousers missing and I was as naked as the day I was
born.
Then my friend, equally naked, was seated on my thighs, running one
long finger down my abdomen with a strangely reverent expression on his
face. I tried to duplicate his previous manouever.
I failed. But I
did manage to sprawl on top of him, the feeling of all his skin against
mine sending shivers down my spinal cord. I went to kiss him again, but
he was looking down.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing," he breathed. "By George. I'm going to
feel that in the morning."
"Perhaps," I owned, "as it has been--"
"Two years, three months, and sixteen days."
"Precautions had best be taken."
"You ought to be able to find something useful in my makeup kit," he
suggested hoarsely.
I
was up in a trice, flinging myself none too gracefully toward his
simple vanity table. About a dozen likely-looking glass
bottles winked
up at me. I chose a promising one.
"That's a mild solvent, my dear chap, and thus...highly inadvisable, to
my mind. Forgive me."
I
kept rummaging. My eyes did not seem to wish to focus on the
tiny
lettering. It was dim in that blasted room, and the cursed
labels were
old, and I had other more pressing things on my mind, to wit: what
would happen immediately after I grasped the right
bottle. He
was my Camelot. My only task was to pull the sword from the
stone, as
it were. And then put another sword back in a different stone
as
quickly as possible. As it were.
"That's concealer." I began to suspect he was hiding a
smile. "I use it to blend in the edges of scars."
My fingers closed around a small and very likely jar.
"Rouge,
my dear fellow? How very...deviant of you. I admit
I do not know
your...tastes in these matters, but apart from the indignity to my
person, it comes in powder form."
I made a renewed effort, raising a vial with a flourish of
triumph.
"Watson, that's spirit gum, and as such not remotely
amusing, even in sport. Do you think it would be too much to
ask that we emerge from our first sexual congress fully intact?"
Flinging
it back with a grimace, I made a final choice, this time selecting a
dull brown bottle marked in capital letters LINSEED OIL. I
executed a
flying dive for the bed.
Sherlock Holmes is an unqualified Mary boy. But he is also a fast
unqualified Mary boy. And a sly one. And so it was
that, while I had
been anticipating other arrangements of limbs, I suddenly found myself
awash in an avalanche of sensation with his lips around my member, my
heart and all other relevant organs writhing in pleasure. My
flesh
tingled with electric desire when he pulled me deeply into his mouth,
my lungs burning with my gasping breath. And--as there was a
complementary cock at my own lips--I could think of no better action to
take at that moment than to swallow him to the bollocks. And
so that
is what I did.
I used to be pitifully preoccupied by my friend's eyes and his
hands. That was a mistake. His mouth.
His mouth wins by a furlong. And when his mouth moans because
you have just put his cock in your own...
It was a landmark in the history of cockfighting.
I could have allowed us to pleasure each other for hours in that
fashion. Well, if by hours
I mean to convey four or five minutes. But I am a man of
focused
mind. I have been in situations of extreme distress and also
extreme
distraction. I am capable of performing multiple tasks at the
same
time. So when I managed to get the stopper open, I poured
linseed oil
over some key fingers and lost no time in making use of them before
throwing the bottle in the general vicinity of Holmes' fireplace.
If you have never heard a man say God's name with your cock in his
mouth, on my honour it is an experiment worth making.
Holmes
left off swallowing me. I think he may have been afraid
something
might cause him to clench his teeth involuntarily, and he might do me
damage. Or else he was saving a bit more of my stamina for
other
purposes. I am tempted to think it was the latter.
He bit my thigh,
meanwhile, the one his head was resting on. Hard. I
thought to reward
him in kind. A third finger did the job nicely.
"John," he gasped, reaching out and tugging at my
prick.
My tongue had been busy, but I pulled away to answer. "Had
you called me Eric, it would have been over between us."
"If
you don't take me soon, you are going to waste a rather glowing
opportunity by bringing me off beforehand. Now, fuck me,
there's a
good fellow."
I did not require a second invitation.
It
was at some point within the next ten seconds, my chest to his back and
my lips in his hair and the raw sounds he was making lost in the quilt,
that I realized that I was in a spot of serious trouble. Not
so far as
the sex was concerned, mind. It takes more than two bottles
of wine
and two glasses of sherry and a glass of half-and-half and a third of a
bottle of Scotch and half a glass of port to render me incapable of
gently riding a man until his clutching fingers disappear entirely into
the bedclothes. No, that all went off without any unfortunate
mishaps. It went off spectacularly well, as a matter of fact,
what
with the sweat from the small of his back dampening my stomach and the
way his shoulders flexed when I breached him. But I was in
trouble
nevertheless. For I began to realize at that moment that I
would never
be a free man--even if a hopelessly enthralled free
man--again. He
owned me. Every part of me, completely. It is a
surprise to learn
that you have enslaved yourself willingly. And I had no idea
just yet
of how he would treat a gift as enormous as myself.
When he did
finish, it was silently. Struggling for air like a man lost
in the
ocean. His eyes flinched shut and flew open, a silver
crescent in the
black, blown void of space. His hands gripped and then slowly
relaxed
again as mine tightened around them.
Have I mentioned his eyes? Or his hands?
They are astonishing.
When I died seconds later, wracked with the severity of my pleasure, I
thought I had been wrong about aluminium.
Platinum was a far richer choice.
I could not move for many long moments, after. And he did not
seem to want me to.
Finally,
we parted. At long last, I slipped my arms around him,
tasting his
shoulder, drawing my knees up into his as we shifted to our
sides.
After seventeen eternities of waiting, I traced the hollows of his
throat with my fingers as we recalled how to breathe.
"Sherlock," I murmured, "I love--"
I found myself unable to continue. It is difficult to
continue speaking when someone has clamped a hand over your mouth.
He
had twisted to face me in one of his lightning-quick surges of energy,
his fingers stealing the breath from my lips as he touched
them.
"We
must never speak of that," he whispered to me. "Please
forgive me for
it. There are many other pleasures I can give you, many other
ways to
express the passion which we have forged this night, many other
offerings I will lay at your feet alone, but never ask me to say the
phrases to you aloud. I will try in every other way that I
can. Your
body will be my temple, and your breath my very life. I shall
take
every beautiful sentiment on earth and bind them all into the nutshell
of your name, but of the softer emotions...of what I feel when I see
you without expecting to, or catch your gaze from the other side of our
fireplace--please do not ask me to reduce such splendors to
words. My
life has been such that what seems to you cold-heartedness is the very
armour that keeps me alive. I will deprive you of nothing, my
only
love, save for the word itself. Please..."
His eyes wandered over my face, slowly drawing his fingers away from my
mouth.
"You sodding cow," I announced, gripping the pillow beneath my head.
Holmes began laughing helplessly.
"Come
off it, I had you all the while!" he gasped, doubling over into the
fetal position while I beat him repeatedly with goosedown.
"You are
the most--" he fended off a blow with his forearm, "--gullible man in
all of Christen--"
"Bollocks I am. You have been found out.
Confess your true heart, or I will beat you with something more
interesting than goose feathers."
"Is that a promise?"
"No, no, keep laughing, my dear fellow. We shall see who
laughs last."
"Idle threats will avail you nothing. Christ--stop
that. Stop! John, you're about to split the--"
The
seams of the pillow burst open, exploding in a storm of grey and white
feathers. It was the second most satisfying experience of
that night.
When I could see him again, glaring prettily at me, I snuggled down
next to him, kissing either darkened eyelid. Then I selected
a larger
feather, white with a charcoal streak down the side, and tucked it
fetchingly into his black hair.
"I shall call you Macaroni," I whispered lovingly.
He
thought for a moment. "John, I do believe you have lit on the
only
given name worse than the one I already have. Thank you."
"You are welcome," I yawned, "but I cannot agree. Sherlock is
quite a lordly name. Regal. Imperious."
"Is it?"
"Dominant. Authoritative."
"Well, then."
"Masterful."
"I see the picture you are drawing clearly, I assure you."
"Oh, good."
"I shall have to act more in character on the next occasion we engage
in degenerate sex acts, then."
"See that you do."
Between
fits of laughter, our breathing slowly settled as we lay together on
the single pillow, our hearts shifting equally slowly to beat in
concert. It was the most perfect night of my life, though I
was
already developing a headache of rare power. That did not
matter in
the least. I was home at last.
And Sherlock Holmes, as it happens, looks alarmingly beautiful with a
feather in his hair. Confound the man.
"All joking aside," I whispered, "might you consider allowing me to
cherish you for the remainder of my lifetime?"
"All joking aside," he murmured sleepily, "I was about to ask you the
same question."
Which
brings us to this morning. Not so very long ago, in
fact. Sherlock
Holmes leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him,
absorbed with his own thoughts. At long last, his eyes
focused and he
looked up at me with an impish tilt to his mouth. Then he
crossed his
legs, wincing at me charmingly. I felt a pleasurable stirring
in
response.
Confound the man.
"A lesson learned, Watson, about being truthful with one's friends," he
smiled.
"And
I hope you take it to heart," I agreed. "At times, a thing
has to be
done, Holmes. When a task has sat before you for long enough,
daunting
but not impossible, fearful but utterly worthwhile, and nothing stands
between you and the executing of that task save to do
it, then I am inclined to think--"
"I should do so," he finished.