Lead and Follow, Part 2
Title: Lead and Follow
Author: ladyblahblah
Rating: NC-17 for violation of the Offences Against the Person Act
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Abuse of science, badly contrived and completely unrealistic situation. No, seriously.
Disclaimer: You know what's great about this fandom? Open content, baby. No disclaimer necessary. But I still wanted to say, it should be clear after reading this that I neither own nor have any official connection to SH. I think I've made ACD turn in his grave with this one. Erm . . . more than normal, that is.
Summary: There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand. This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.
Author's Notes: This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of A Lesson In Deduction, though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone. Don't say I didn't warn you. The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous. The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed. They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended. I'm sorry, boys! I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.
Part 1
I awoke to the mid-morning sun streaming through the thin curtains. I stretched luxuriously, but my contentment gradually faded into confusion. I clearly remembered falling asleep beneath Holmes the night before-and oh, what a rush of blood was brought by the remembrance of his sweaty body on top of mine-but here I was alone in my bed, cleaned of the residue of our coupling and properly dressed in a fresh nightshirt. I might have thought the entire thing no more than another of my vivid and not infrequent dreams if not for the evidence of a certain soreness in my nether regions and the faint scent of Holmes’s hair cream on the pillow.
Had he left last night, or had he simply risen before me this morning? I suspected the former, but not being possessed of Holmes’s ability to tell a man’s movements from the tiniest of clues there was no way for me to know for certain.
I rose to dress and hesitated before my wardrobe, realizing that I had no idea how I ought to dress. I chided myself for the foolishness of the thought, yet still I hesitated. While it was not unheard of for me to attend breakfast in my dressing gown, to do so now seemed to smack of intimacy. Had I awoken to find Holmes still at my side I would not have hesitated a moment; his absence, however, had driven home the fact that last night’s activities were as detached from the warmth of human emotion as were any of his chemical experiments. I deplored the thought of making myself vulnerable only to have him look upon me with disdain or, infinitely worse, with pity.
In the end I chose to dress fully, prepared to explain my clothing with the excuse of an errand to check in on my old practice should Holmes inquire. It was a wasted effort on my part, however, as it was clear to me from the moment I opened my door that my friend would no more notice my apparel than he would a stampede of elephants. The chemical odor that assaulted my nose told me clearly that he was engaged in one of his noxious experiments that so frequently sent me to my club to escape those fumes that never seemed to bother him.
Shaking my head, I made my way to the sitting room through the morass of vapors that clouded our rooms. I had expected to find Holmes at his worktable; what I saw when I entered the room, however, surpassed any expectation I was capable of forming.
Beakers and vials smoked and fizzed as he carried on what looked to be at least three different experiments at once. No sooner had he checked on one than the next would demand his attention. Occasionally, as I stood there transfixed, he would give a cry of triumph and turn feverishly to note his findings-whatever they were-in a notebook at his elbow. He was like a man possessed, and I could do nothing but stand and stare.
He never noticed me, and it was only lightheadedness from the byproducts of his work that finally jarred me back to awareness. It had been my intention to ring for Mrs. Hudson and see if a bit of a late breakfast couldn’t be arranged, but the cloying air made it clear that I would be better off vacating immediately. I opened the sitting room window-still Holmes took no notice of me-in the hopes that the small vent might keep my friend from an early grave brought about by his own carelessness. Then, with a fond look but no attempt at conversation, I made my way downstairs.
I stopped briefly to inform Mrs. Hudson that I would be leaving for several hours for the preservation of my health. She kindly agreed to pass the information along to Holmes should he emerge from his world of chemicals and reagents. The weather was pleasant enough for me to forego an overcoat, and so with only my hat and cane I headed out.
I did indeed stop in to check on my former practice; despite having sold it I retained an interest in its success. At times I missed it, but I had never regretted my decision. Indeed, once Holmes had returned it had seemed only natural that I should turn away from what had become my life in his absence, to follow him once more. I reflected on that as I made my way towards my club. Not once, in all the intervening years, had I even considered leaving his company again. God, how I must love him.
The realization brought me up short. Could it be possible? An instant’s thought assured me that yes, it was not only possible, it was absolute fact. Though I know not when, I had at some point fallen most foolishly in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Aghast, I stared up at the edifice before me. My desire to spend an hour or two at the club had vanished. Within those once-comforting walls I would be greeted, drawn into conversation. While I fancy that I am normally as sociable as the average Englishman, the thought of interaction was loathsome to me at that moment. I needed peace; I needed to think.
I began to walk, my route aimless. One is seldom as unapproachable as when walking alone with a look of great determination, and I found that in the crowded London streets I obtained a kind of solitude. Alone, for all intents and purposes, with my thoughts, my mind began to reel.
I had known that I cared for Holmes. Certainly I would have been foolish to try to deny my fondness for the man, considering how readily I dropped everything to accompany him on his cases on a moment’s notice. I had unquestionably worried for his safety and his health. I had desired him with near painful intensity. But when had I allowed it to turn to love?
No answer awaited me save one: that it mattered little when I had fallen when the consequences were so grave. I had already broken the law with little thought to my own vulnerability should I be discovered. To love a man such as Holmes, however, frightened me in a way that the Offences Against the Person Act could never manage.
Holmes had my heart in his hand, and it was very likely-indeed, nearly inevitable-that he would crush it. Perhaps not intentionally, for though I have written much of his disdain for the softer passions I still can not believe him capable of such insensate cruelty. No, the killing blow would land as it does for a bug squashed on the sidewalk: not from a conscious wish to harm, but merely as the result of inattention. Holmes could easily destroy me without realizing that his actions caused me pain, indeed without fully comprehending his own power over me.
One thing was clear to me: what had occurred last night must never happen again. That was the only way, I realized, that I might regain some measure of control over myself. To allow our physical intimacy to continue would destroy me, no matter how glorious it might be in the short-term.
So decided, I made my way back to Baker Street. I was relieved, upon my entry, to hear from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes had ceased his experiments some hours ago after a blast that had been both heard and felt in her rooms below. He had left shortly thereafter in his usual fashion, without bothering to leave word as to where he had gone or when he might be back. I was too used to Holmes’s erratic behavior to be much surprised by this, and as Mrs. Hudson had seen to it that our rooms had been aired out as soon as he left, I settled down with a novel and passed the rest of the afternoon in quiet contemplation.
It was past supper when Holmes finally returned, irritation clear on his face and from the way he flung the door open and closed.
“Bumbling idiots,” he muttered, striding into the room and immediately over to his experiments. “Why, not a one of them would spare the time to take a look at my findings. I hand them a foolproof method for detecting counterfeits, and I receive no more attention than a postman handing over the daily correspondence! Tell me, Watson, why do I put up with those bunglers at Scotland Yard?”
“Because they bring you cases,” I said without looking up from my paper.
“Ah, yes,” he said wistfully. “I suppose they are good for that, if nothing else. Nevertheless, I shall not listen the next time Lestrade complains of the difficulty in discerning fakes. I have no sympathy for his trials when he rejects such a useful tool.
“I tell you it was a breakthrough!” I set aside my paper now, vastly entertained by Holmes’s animated speech. “I have been laboring over this formula for months. My hemoglobin experiment was difficult enough, but this was a thousand times worse. Impossible, some would say. But I have done it, Watson! I confess, I had feared that indulging in carnal activities would blunt my reasoning capabilities; instead, it seems to have sharpened them! And I owe it all to you, dear boy.”
His expression changed then, as though he were truly seeing me for the first time since he had walked through the door. His posture tensed slightly, changing him in an instant from an excitable scientist to a hunter stalking his prey. I felt my hands grow damp.
“Yes,” he mused, drawing closer to me, “I owe you, indeed, for all that you have done for me.” His eyes swept over me in lingering appraisal. “I do hope you’ll let me thank you properly.”
I stood, the thought of flight half-formed in my mind as he approached. I could not allow this to happen again. I had to leave, to absent myself until this fit of his had passed. But my mouth was dry and my heart was racing as I stood rooted to the spot, frozen like a rabbit in the gaze of a snake by his gray eyes blazing into mine.
“Holmes,” I croaked out, but got no farther in my protests before I was silenced by his mouth, searing hot, over mine.
Any thought of stopping his kiss, or the wonderful hands that were already working at my clothes, flew immediately from my head. As always I had no defense against his will, and after my recent revelation I knew that I had no hope of halting his advances. I loved him, and I wanted him with a desperation that bordered on savagery. This behavior could not continue indefinitely; I would have to put an end to it eventually. But now my love, my Holmes, was in my arms, and I needed him so desperately I could barely breathe. When he began to guide us towards my bedroom I gave no resistance. Surely the next day would be a good enough time to end things.
In reality, it was more than three weeks before I was able to work up the will to do so. It was always to the same-during the day we were partners as always, and Holmes took as vacillating an interest in me as he always had. He worked on one or two minor cases, finding a missing shipment of Italian marble and uncovering the plot to frame the culprit’s business partner for the crime. Life continued as normal. At night, however, it was as though a switch had been flipped. He looked at me with new eyes, and became in my arms as ardent a lover as ever walked the earth.
In our lovemaking he was as inquisitive and demanding, if not as coldly analytical, as he was in any other matter. He took delight in discovering new ways for us to please each other, and I came to know how he felt inside as thoroughly as he knew me. When my imagination-so often derided by him when it came to my writing-supplied a new intimacy for us to try, he responded with wholehearted enthusiasm.
One might have expected a man such as Sherlock Holmes to be reticent in such intimate acts; in reality, however, he gave of himself so freely that it touched me to the soul. It was, I write with no small amount of irony, that generosity which finally pushed me to call an end to our arrangement. As much as he was willing to give me of his body, he still held his emotions away from me. Physically satisfying though our relationship was, I felt an emptiness in my heart that only grew with each successive coupling.
It took all my strength of will one night to broach the subject. As usual, Holmes brushed aside my requests that we talk with an impatient gesture. He was immersed in tracking down a certain tidbit of information in his dreadfully unorganized files, and it required his full attention; he implored me to wait. I could not, however, for I knew that the end of his efforts would bring a resurgence of his ardor, and I was no more equipped to stand against it tonight than I had been on any of the nights past. More drastic measures, I decided, were needed.
“I think it would be best if I looked for other lodgings, Holmes.”
That got his attention at last, and his head whipped up from the study that had so engaged him.
“Why, Watson, whatever for?” The question was an automatic one, I believe, rather than the result of conscious thought, as I saw comprehension dawn on his face immediately. “Ah. I see.” He exchanged his files for his pipe, and for several moments he was occupied in filling it with his favorite shag.
“It’s only that . . . I don’t think that I can keep this up any longer.”
“No need to explain, Watson,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve already trespassed upon your kind nature quite long enough in regards to this experiment of mine. You may rest assured that I will not press you to indulge me again. There is no need for you to seek out new lodgings-I assure you, you are quite safe here.”
I sighed. It was so like him, to assume that he had handily solved the problem and that the subject was now closed.
“It’s not just that, Holmes. Now that you’ve discovered . . . well . . .” I was appalled to find that I was blushing, something I had not done since I was a boy. “As I was saying, now that you’ve discovered this, ah, new side of yourself, it’s only natural that you should wish to continue such explorations.”
“I have already assured you that I will make no advances against your person, Watson,” he said testily. “Do you have reason to doubt my word?”
“Never, Holmes,” I hastened to reassure him. “But I do not relish the thought of being in the way when you bring others back here. It would be an uncomfortable situation for us both.”
“I fail to see why I would be of a mind to bring anyone here.” He still did not seem to understand, and I fought my own frustration, giving instead a disbelieving laugh.
“I never thought to see the day when Sherlock Holmes was stymied by the obvious. It just makes good sense for you to bring your partners here. If you were to use another flat or a hotel you might be followed and discovered. The scandal would be enormous, to say nothing of the legal action that might be taken against you. Here, however, you are already known for having any number of visitors, and at all hours, at that.”
“I see.”
That was all he said for the rest of the evening; several minutes later I observed him taking his pipe and Persian slipper into his room for what I can only presume was another of his bouts of intense thought. I assumed that he had seen the wisdom of what I had said and was simply settling down, as was his habit, to ruminate upon it.
My theory seemed to be supported when I rose the next morning to find him gone, a note trapped beneath the butter dish declaring that he had gone out for a walk and not to expect him back until much later. I was rather surprised, as he was not accustomed to keeping me apprised of his whereabouts unless we were actively on a case, and even then he was more apt than not to simply disappear and reappear of his own volition. I accepted this, however, as one of Holmes’s little vagaries and did not think on it overmuch.
For my own part, I spent the day perusing the advertisements for a suitable set of rooms. It gave me a pang, I admit, to leave behind the home to which I had so gladly returned. The thought of having to see-perhaps even converse with-Holmes’s future partners gave me a sharper pang, however, and kept my resolve strong.
I was just sitting down to the excellent meal afforded by Mrs. Hudson when Holmes came strolling through the door. Seeing my repast he immediately rang for his own meal and had disappeared behind his paper by the time it arrived.
I was curious to know where he had been, but long experience had taught me that I would get nothing from him until he was ready to speak. We were silent throughout supper, and in the interim my curiosity grew exponentially. Did his absence have something to do with our discussion last night? I had nearly reached the point where I had to ask-patience be damned-when he put down the paper at last and smirked across the table at me.
“I commend you, Watson. Many a lesser man would have crumbled under the pressure of such fierce curiosity.” He laughed outright at what was surely my astonished and frustrated expression. “Oh, Watson, no doubt you thought your interest quite well hidden, and I will allow that it may have been from one who did not know you so well. But you have habit of stitching up phantom wounds-only the barest twitch of the fingers, it took me a devilishly long time to divine what you were doing-when you are trying to restrain your instincts to demand answers.”
My customary irritation at being so blatantly transparent flared at his words, but I made an effort to rein it in. I was determined to act as if my interest were idle at best, reluctant to add any fuel to the fire of Holmes’s mockery.
“Very well,” I said good-naturedly, “since you seem disposed to tell me, I shall ask you what you were doing today.”
“There it is at last,” Holmes said, his eyes sparkling. “Well, since you seem disposed to listen, I shall tell you. I was performing an experiment.”
My brow wrinkled in a frown. “An experiment?”
“Indeed.” He picked up his pipe and began to fill it. “And I can now safely conclude that there is absolutely no need for you to move from our rooms, my dear Watson.”
“What?” I was confounded. “But . . . good Lord, Holmes, don’t tell me you’re honestly thinking of using a hotel?”
“Nothing of the kind,” he assured me calmly. He lit his pipe and took a moment or two enjoying the first puffs of smoke. “I will not be needing a hotel, any more than I will be needing use of these rooms.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“That much is quite clear,” he said, his eyes sparkling in dry amusement. “To put it plainly, I ventured around the city today in search of a new lover. Oh, I know I was unlikely to actually find a partner in such a manner,” he said in response to my astonished gasp, “but I had determined that I should at least get an idea of the sort of man I’m attracted to, since I seem to be built for such, shall we say, aberrant desires.”
He paused again to puff on his pipe and I could not help but stare at him, sitting there as calmly as though he were discussing the evening’s weather rather than an appetite that could get him landed in gaol.
“However, the longer I walked and the longer I searched, the clearer it became that I would not find what I was looking for. Not a single man or woman that I saw-for I expanded my search after several hours with the thought that perhaps that desire had likewise simply lain dormant-not a single one managed to stir my interest in the slightest.” He leaned back in his chair, looking as pleased with himself as he did when he had solved a particularly thorny case. “My desire seems to have been an abnormality rather than an awakening; while I might at some point investigate a bit further into what caused it, the fact remains that it has died out as suddenly as it arose.”
“I see,” I managed weakly. A moment later I felt the ghost of a smile touch my lips. “And now, I suppose, you ‘shall do your best to forget it’?”
“Perhaps,” he mused. “Though the information could one day prove useful; the point of the experiment was, after all, to gain a further understanding of that driving force. Perhaps instead I shall simply set the experience on a shelf to gather dust until such time as I may need it again. Then again . . . no, no doubt you are right. It would be a far more efficient use of space to simply forget altogether.” He looked back up at me, and though he smiled slightly his eyes were serious. “Please, Watson, do not think any more of moving out. I fear the place should not be the same without my Boswell in residence again.”
I hesitated. My instincts were clambering at me to run, to flee before the toll of Holmes’s constant presence after what we had shared began to warp me. The thought of leaving was still painful, however, and I had run out of excuses to do so. If suffering was inevitable, better that I suffer near the one I loved.
“Very well, Holmes,” I answered at last. “I shall stay.”
The relief on his face was so subtle that only someone intimately aquatinted with him would have noticed it at all; but I was very intimately acquainted with him indeed. And as he settled into an account of his latest case the tension between us eased somewhat, leaving only a familiar camaraderie in its place. Perhaps, I began to hope, things could indeed return to the way they were before.
Part 3
Author: ladyblahblah
Rating: NC-17 for violation of the Offences Against the Person Act
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Abuse of science, badly contrived and completely unrealistic situation. No, seriously.
Disclaimer: You know what's great about this fandom? Open content, baby. No disclaimer necessary. But I still wanted to say, it should be clear after reading this that I neither own nor have any official connection to SH. I think I've made ACD turn in his grave with this one. Erm . . . more than normal, that is.
Summary: There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand. This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.
Author's Notes: This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of A Lesson In Deduction, though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone. Don't say I didn't warn you. The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous. The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed. They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended. I'm sorry, boys! I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.
Part 1
I awoke to the mid-morning sun streaming through the thin curtains. I stretched luxuriously, but my contentment gradually faded into confusion. I clearly remembered falling asleep beneath Holmes the night before-and oh, what a rush of blood was brought by the remembrance of his sweaty body on top of mine-but here I was alone in my bed, cleaned of the residue of our coupling and properly dressed in a fresh nightshirt. I might have thought the entire thing no more than another of my vivid and not infrequent dreams if not for the evidence of a certain soreness in my nether regions and the faint scent of Holmes’s hair cream on the pillow.
Had he left last night, or had he simply risen before me this morning? I suspected the former, but not being possessed of Holmes’s ability to tell a man’s movements from the tiniest of clues there was no way for me to know for certain.
I rose to dress and hesitated before my wardrobe, realizing that I had no idea how I ought to dress. I chided myself for the foolishness of the thought, yet still I hesitated. While it was not unheard of for me to attend breakfast in my dressing gown, to do so now seemed to smack of intimacy. Had I awoken to find Holmes still at my side I would not have hesitated a moment; his absence, however, had driven home the fact that last night’s activities were as detached from the warmth of human emotion as were any of his chemical experiments. I deplored the thought of making myself vulnerable only to have him look upon me with disdain or, infinitely worse, with pity.
In the end I chose to dress fully, prepared to explain my clothing with the excuse of an errand to check in on my old practice should Holmes inquire. It was a wasted effort on my part, however, as it was clear to me from the moment I opened my door that my friend would no more notice my apparel than he would a stampede of elephants. The chemical odor that assaulted my nose told me clearly that he was engaged in one of his noxious experiments that so frequently sent me to my club to escape those fumes that never seemed to bother him.
Shaking my head, I made my way to the sitting room through the morass of vapors that clouded our rooms. I had expected to find Holmes at his worktable; what I saw when I entered the room, however, surpassed any expectation I was capable of forming.
Beakers and vials smoked and fizzed as he carried on what looked to be at least three different experiments at once. No sooner had he checked on one than the next would demand his attention. Occasionally, as I stood there transfixed, he would give a cry of triumph and turn feverishly to note his findings-whatever they were-in a notebook at his elbow. He was like a man possessed, and I could do nothing but stand and stare.
He never noticed me, and it was only lightheadedness from the byproducts of his work that finally jarred me back to awareness. It had been my intention to ring for Mrs. Hudson and see if a bit of a late breakfast couldn’t be arranged, but the cloying air made it clear that I would be better off vacating immediately. I opened the sitting room window-still Holmes took no notice of me-in the hopes that the small vent might keep my friend from an early grave brought about by his own carelessness. Then, with a fond look but no attempt at conversation, I made my way downstairs.
I stopped briefly to inform Mrs. Hudson that I would be leaving for several hours for the preservation of my health. She kindly agreed to pass the information along to Holmes should he emerge from his world of chemicals and reagents. The weather was pleasant enough for me to forego an overcoat, and so with only my hat and cane I headed out.
I did indeed stop in to check on my former practice; despite having sold it I retained an interest in its success. At times I missed it, but I had never regretted my decision. Indeed, once Holmes had returned it had seemed only natural that I should turn away from what had become my life in his absence, to follow him once more. I reflected on that as I made my way towards my club. Not once, in all the intervening years, had I even considered leaving his company again. God, how I must love him.
The realization brought me up short. Could it be possible? An instant’s thought assured me that yes, it was not only possible, it was absolute fact. Though I know not when, I had at some point fallen most foolishly in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Aghast, I stared up at the edifice before me. My desire to spend an hour or two at the club had vanished. Within those once-comforting walls I would be greeted, drawn into conversation. While I fancy that I am normally as sociable as the average Englishman, the thought of interaction was loathsome to me at that moment. I needed peace; I needed to think.
I began to walk, my route aimless. One is seldom as unapproachable as when walking alone with a look of great determination, and I found that in the crowded London streets I obtained a kind of solitude. Alone, for all intents and purposes, with my thoughts, my mind began to reel.
I had known that I cared for Holmes. Certainly I would have been foolish to try to deny my fondness for the man, considering how readily I dropped everything to accompany him on his cases on a moment’s notice. I had unquestionably worried for his safety and his health. I had desired him with near painful intensity. But when had I allowed it to turn to love?
No answer awaited me save one: that it mattered little when I had fallen when the consequences were so grave. I had already broken the law with little thought to my own vulnerability should I be discovered. To love a man such as Holmes, however, frightened me in a way that the Offences Against the Person Act could never manage.
Holmes had my heart in his hand, and it was very likely-indeed, nearly inevitable-that he would crush it. Perhaps not intentionally, for though I have written much of his disdain for the softer passions I still can not believe him capable of such insensate cruelty. No, the killing blow would land as it does for a bug squashed on the sidewalk: not from a conscious wish to harm, but merely as the result of inattention. Holmes could easily destroy me without realizing that his actions caused me pain, indeed without fully comprehending his own power over me.
One thing was clear to me: what had occurred last night must never happen again. That was the only way, I realized, that I might regain some measure of control over myself. To allow our physical intimacy to continue would destroy me, no matter how glorious it might be in the short-term.
So decided, I made my way back to Baker Street. I was relieved, upon my entry, to hear from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes had ceased his experiments some hours ago after a blast that had been both heard and felt in her rooms below. He had left shortly thereafter in his usual fashion, without bothering to leave word as to where he had gone or when he might be back. I was too used to Holmes’s erratic behavior to be much surprised by this, and as Mrs. Hudson had seen to it that our rooms had been aired out as soon as he left, I settled down with a novel and passed the rest of the afternoon in quiet contemplation.
It was past supper when Holmes finally returned, irritation clear on his face and from the way he flung the door open and closed.
“Bumbling idiots,” he muttered, striding into the room and immediately over to his experiments. “Why, not a one of them would spare the time to take a look at my findings. I hand them a foolproof method for detecting counterfeits, and I receive no more attention than a postman handing over the daily correspondence! Tell me, Watson, why do I put up with those bunglers at Scotland Yard?”
“Because they bring you cases,” I said without looking up from my paper.
“Ah, yes,” he said wistfully. “I suppose they are good for that, if nothing else. Nevertheless, I shall not listen the next time Lestrade complains of the difficulty in discerning fakes. I have no sympathy for his trials when he rejects such a useful tool.
“I tell you it was a breakthrough!” I set aside my paper now, vastly entertained by Holmes’s animated speech. “I have been laboring over this formula for months. My hemoglobin experiment was difficult enough, but this was a thousand times worse. Impossible, some would say. But I have done it, Watson! I confess, I had feared that indulging in carnal activities would blunt my reasoning capabilities; instead, it seems to have sharpened them! And I owe it all to you, dear boy.”
His expression changed then, as though he were truly seeing me for the first time since he had walked through the door. His posture tensed slightly, changing him in an instant from an excitable scientist to a hunter stalking his prey. I felt my hands grow damp.
“Yes,” he mused, drawing closer to me, “I owe you, indeed, for all that you have done for me.” His eyes swept over me in lingering appraisal. “I do hope you’ll let me thank you properly.”
I stood, the thought of flight half-formed in my mind as he approached. I could not allow this to happen again. I had to leave, to absent myself until this fit of his had passed. But my mouth was dry and my heart was racing as I stood rooted to the spot, frozen like a rabbit in the gaze of a snake by his gray eyes blazing into mine.
“Holmes,” I croaked out, but got no farther in my protests before I was silenced by his mouth, searing hot, over mine.
Any thought of stopping his kiss, or the wonderful hands that were already working at my clothes, flew immediately from my head. As always I had no defense against his will, and after my recent revelation I knew that I had no hope of halting his advances. I loved him, and I wanted him with a desperation that bordered on savagery. This behavior could not continue indefinitely; I would have to put an end to it eventually. But now my love, my Holmes, was in my arms, and I needed him so desperately I could barely breathe. When he began to guide us towards my bedroom I gave no resistance. Surely the next day would be a good enough time to end things.
In reality, it was more than three weeks before I was able to work up the will to do so. It was always to the same-during the day we were partners as always, and Holmes took as vacillating an interest in me as he always had. He worked on one or two minor cases, finding a missing shipment of Italian marble and uncovering the plot to frame the culprit’s business partner for the crime. Life continued as normal. At night, however, it was as though a switch had been flipped. He looked at me with new eyes, and became in my arms as ardent a lover as ever walked the earth.
In our lovemaking he was as inquisitive and demanding, if not as coldly analytical, as he was in any other matter. He took delight in discovering new ways for us to please each other, and I came to know how he felt inside as thoroughly as he knew me. When my imagination-so often derided by him when it came to my writing-supplied a new intimacy for us to try, he responded with wholehearted enthusiasm.
One might have expected a man such as Sherlock Holmes to be reticent in such intimate acts; in reality, however, he gave of himself so freely that it touched me to the soul. It was, I write with no small amount of irony, that generosity which finally pushed me to call an end to our arrangement. As much as he was willing to give me of his body, he still held his emotions away from me. Physically satisfying though our relationship was, I felt an emptiness in my heart that only grew with each successive coupling.
It took all my strength of will one night to broach the subject. As usual, Holmes brushed aside my requests that we talk with an impatient gesture. He was immersed in tracking down a certain tidbit of information in his dreadfully unorganized files, and it required his full attention; he implored me to wait. I could not, however, for I knew that the end of his efforts would bring a resurgence of his ardor, and I was no more equipped to stand against it tonight than I had been on any of the nights past. More drastic measures, I decided, were needed.
“I think it would be best if I looked for other lodgings, Holmes.”
That got his attention at last, and his head whipped up from the study that had so engaged him.
“Why, Watson, whatever for?” The question was an automatic one, I believe, rather than the result of conscious thought, as I saw comprehension dawn on his face immediately. “Ah. I see.” He exchanged his files for his pipe, and for several moments he was occupied in filling it with his favorite shag.
“It’s only that . . . I don’t think that I can keep this up any longer.”
“No need to explain, Watson,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve already trespassed upon your kind nature quite long enough in regards to this experiment of mine. You may rest assured that I will not press you to indulge me again. There is no need for you to seek out new lodgings-I assure you, you are quite safe here.”
I sighed. It was so like him, to assume that he had handily solved the problem and that the subject was now closed.
“It’s not just that, Holmes. Now that you’ve discovered . . . well . . .” I was appalled to find that I was blushing, something I had not done since I was a boy. “As I was saying, now that you’ve discovered this, ah, new side of yourself, it’s only natural that you should wish to continue such explorations.”
“I have already assured you that I will make no advances against your person, Watson,” he said testily. “Do you have reason to doubt my word?”
“Never, Holmes,” I hastened to reassure him. “But I do not relish the thought of being in the way when you bring others back here. It would be an uncomfortable situation for us both.”
“I fail to see why I would be of a mind to bring anyone here.” He still did not seem to understand, and I fought my own frustration, giving instead a disbelieving laugh.
“I never thought to see the day when Sherlock Holmes was stymied by the obvious. It just makes good sense for you to bring your partners here. If you were to use another flat or a hotel you might be followed and discovered. The scandal would be enormous, to say nothing of the legal action that might be taken against you. Here, however, you are already known for having any number of visitors, and at all hours, at that.”
“I see.”
That was all he said for the rest of the evening; several minutes later I observed him taking his pipe and Persian slipper into his room for what I can only presume was another of his bouts of intense thought. I assumed that he had seen the wisdom of what I had said and was simply settling down, as was his habit, to ruminate upon it.
My theory seemed to be supported when I rose the next morning to find him gone, a note trapped beneath the butter dish declaring that he had gone out for a walk and not to expect him back until much later. I was rather surprised, as he was not accustomed to keeping me apprised of his whereabouts unless we were actively on a case, and even then he was more apt than not to simply disappear and reappear of his own volition. I accepted this, however, as one of Holmes’s little vagaries and did not think on it overmuch.
For my own part, I spent the day perusing the advertisements for a suitable set of rooms. It gave me a pang, I admit, to leave behind the home to which I had so gladly returned. The thought of having to see-perhaps even converse with-Holmes’s future partners gave me a sharper pang, however, and kept my resolve strong.
I was just sitting down to the excellent meal afforded by Mrs. Hudson when Holmes came strolling through the door. Seeing my repast he immediately rang for his own meal and had disappeared behind his paper by the time it arrived.
I was curious to know where he had been, but long experience had taught me that I would get nothing from him until he was ready to speak. We were silent throughout supper, and in the interim my curiosity grew exponentially. Did his absence have something to do with our discussion last night? I had nearly reached the point where I had to ask-patience be damned-when he put down the paper at last and smirked across the table at me.
“I commend you, Watson. Many a lesser man would have crumbled under the pressure of such fierce curiosity.” He laughed outright at what was surely my astonished and frustrated expression. “Oh, Watson, no doubt you thought your interest quite well hidden, and I will allow that it may have been from one who did not know you so well. But you have habit of stitching up phantom wounds-only the barest twitch of the fingers, it took me a devilishly long time to divine what you were doing-when you are trying to restrain your instincts to demand answers.”
My customary irritation at being so blatantly transparent flared at his words, but I made an effort to rein it in. I was determined to act as if my interest were idle at best, reluctant to add any fuel to the fire of Holmes’s mockery.
“Very well,” I said good-naturedly, “since you seem disposed to tell me, I shall ask you what you were doing today.”
“There it is at last,” Holmes said, his eyes sparkling. “Well, since you seem disposed to listen, I shall tell you. I was performing an experiment.”
My brow wrinkled in a frown. “An experiment?”
“Indeed.” He picked up his pipe and began to fill it. “And I can now safely conclude that there is absolutely no need for you to move from our rooms, my dear Watson.”
“What?” I was confounded. “But . . . good Lord, Holmes, don’t tell me you’re honestly thinking of using a hotel?”
“Nothing of the kind,” he assured me calmly. He lit his pipe and took a moment or two enjoying the first puffs of smoke. “I will not be needing a hotel, any more than I will be needing use of these rooms.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“That much is quite clear,” he said, his eyes sparkling in dry amusement. “To put it plainly, I ventured around the city today in search of a new lover. Oh, I know I was unlikely to actually find a partner in such a manner,” he said in response to my astonished gasp, “but I had determined that I should at least get an idea of the sort of man I’m attracted to, since I seem to be built for such, shall we say, aberrant desires.”
He paused again to puff on his pipe and I could not help but stare at him, sitting there as calmly as though he were discussing the evening’s weather rather than an appetite that could get him landed in gaol.
“However, the longer I walked and the longer I searched, the clearer it became that I would not find what I was looking for. Not a single man or woman that I saw-for I expanded my search after several hours with the thought that perhaps that desire had likewise simply lain dormant-not a single one managed to stir my interest in the slightest.” He leaned back in his chair, looking as pleased with himself as he did when he had solved a particularly thorny case. “My desire seems to have been an abnormality rather than an awakening; while I might at some point investigate a bit further into what caused it, the fact remains that it has died out as suddenly as it arose.”
“I see,” I managed weakly. A moment later I felt the ghost of a smile touch my lips. “And now, I suppose, you ‘shall do your best to forget it’?”
“Perhaps,” he mused. “Though the information could one day prove useful; the point of the experiment was, after all, to gain a further understanding of that driving force. Perhaps instead I shall simply set the experience on a shelf to gather dust until such time as I may need it again. Then again . . . no, no doubt you are right. It would be a far more efficient use of space to simply forget altogether.” He looked back up at me, and though he smiled slightly his eyes were serious. “Please, Watson, do not think any more of moving out. I fear the place should not be the same without my Boswell in residence again.”
I hesitated. My instincts were clambering at me to run, to flee before the toll of Holmes’s constant presence after what we had shared began to warp me. The thought of leaving was still painful, however, and I had run out of excuses to do so. If suffering was inevitable, better that I suffer near the one I loved.
“Very well, Holmes,” I answered at last. “I shall stay.”
The relief on his face was so subtle that only someone intimately aquatinted with him would have noticed it at all; but I was very intimately acquainted with him indeed. And as he settled into an account of his latest case the tension between us eased somewhat, leaving only a familiar camaraderie in its place. Perhaps, I began to hope, things could indeed return to the way they were before.
Part 3