Fic: The Rest of the Affair (Part 2 of 2)
Part 1
It was a bitterly cold night. We took a cab to Hampstead, disembarking a ways from Milverton’s home and walking along the edge of the heath to get there. Holmes informed me of what he had learned of Milverton’s sleeping habits and the general routine of the household from his fiancée; I tamped down my jealousy toward this woman as he spoke.
Holmes’ burglary tools were quite handy and allowed us easy access to the house. I felt a bit of an ominous chill as we entered, knowing that we were now felons in the eyes of the law. I took a shaky breath.
Holmes took my gloved hand in his and squeezed me tightly. Although much of his face was obscured by his mask, I could still make out a faint smile. He nodded at me slightly, as if to discern that I was agreeable with the proceedings. I nodded back, indicating that I was fine.
He continued to hold my hand and led me to Milverton’s study. The pressure of his hand felt pleasant in mine, even through the glove, and was quite comforting. I felt a sense of safety, even in rather dangerous circumstances, while Holmes held me. He pressed my hand one last time and we separated. I secured the door leading outside, although we were both alarmed as to its unlocked state, and Holmes began to immediately begin his work on the safe.
It was slow-going, and Holmes was engrossed with his work. I have to confess my own exultation, brought about by the thrill of the danger, the righteous of our actions, and my admiration of Holmes himself. I was almost disappointed when Holmes succeeded at his task.
He had barely gotten the safe opened when he heard movement in the next room. We hid behind the curtains and watched as Milverton unexpectedly entered and settled down for a smoke, obviously waiting for something. I could see that the safe was slightly opened and I felt the bile of fear in my throat.
I still remember the feel of Holmes’ hand as it stole into mine, the reassurance he was trying to convey, his own slight shaking betraying his fears. I knew in that moment that there was no place I would rather be than beside him, no matter the consequences. I squeezed his hand and felt the return pressure. I held onto him as a lifeline while we were waiting in frightened silence.
I have already conveyed in my published account the happenings of that dreaded night-the arrival of the vengeful lady, her cries of accusation to her blackmailer, the deadly accuracy of her shots, Holmes’ restraint upon my arm as he wisely prevented me from getting involved. She ran from the room as silently as she had come, and Milverton lay dead before us.
“The door, Watson,” Holmes hissed as he sprang from our hiding place immediately, emptying the safe of all its vile correspondence and quickly throwing the letters into the fire. I ran to secure the door, for I could hear that the household had been roused by the revolver shots. I was just in time, for almost immediately after it was secured someone was trying the door handle and then started to beat upon the door. I spun to see that Holmes had completed his task; all the letters were burning brightly in the fireplace, their secret, private messages turning to ash. Holmes grabbed the letter carried by the killer, which was dropped in her haste to flee, and threw that onto the blaze.
I wrote in my account that the woman had ground her heel into Milverton’s face before her departure; that was not entirely accurate. She was not the person who had committed such an act. Holmes had stopped by Milverton’s corpse on our way to the outer door. He looked down at the body; I had never seen such contempt in his face. “You vicious fiend,” he spat, trying to crush Milverton’s ear with the heel of his shoe.
I grabbed Holmes’ arm. He looked at me, startled, as if recovering from a trance.
“We have to go-now,” I insisted urgently.
He visibly shook himself. He wiped his shoe on Milverton’s sleeve, leaving a reddish streak. Blood had run from the wound in Milverton’s chest, and Holmes cautiously made his way around the gruesome puddle. He hurried to the door leading outside. I was right behind him. We ran through the grounds with pursuers from the house quickly closing the gap between us. Holmes scaled the six-foot garden wall and I followed immediately. I felt a strong hand grasp my ankle and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such fear, even on the battlefields of my youth. I managed to kick free and land awkwardly on the other side of the wall. Holmes quickly steadied me and we ran into the heath. After a mile or so, we slowed our pace. If there was pursuit, we had lost them in our frantic run.
We made our way across the heath to Highgate and Holmes was silent all the while. He shook off any attempt I made to comfort him or even, indeed, to speak with him. Once we reached the streets, we found a hansom outside of a nearby pub. Holmes proceeded to act as a drunken gentleman on his way home after an evening of serious libations, and I followed his lead, as much as my more poor acting skills would allow. Holmes gave an address no where near Baker Street, but moving toward the direction of home. We followed this procedure four more times-changing hansoms, getting closer, never giving away our true address or identities. Our last stop was perhaps a 15 minute walk from our rooms, a walk we made in exhausted silence.
Our front door was a welcome sight.
I led the way into our rooms and stoked the burning fire as Holmes sank onto the settee. I examined him from across the room and I could see that he was visibly shaking. I knew that he was in a mild state of shock, for this whole investigation had been quite emotional for him and I knew that the events of the evening had upset him severely. Not only had Holmes miscalculated Milverton’s movements, almost leading to our capture, but the act of murder we had witnessed was quite horrifying, even if justified.
I wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and then poured us each a brandy. I handed him his glass and then sat on the sofa next to him. He swallowed the drink in one gulp. I do not think he was even aware of what he was doing. His shaking continued and he just clutched the blanket to himself tightly.
It pained me to see him so upset. Without conscious thought on my part, in an attempt to comfort him, I drew him to me and held him close. I could feel his trembling slowly subside. I gently kissed his brow and continued to hold him. He eventually laid his head upon my shoulder. His breathing evened out and I thought he had fallen asleep.
“Victor Trevor and I were lovers,” he finally said, surprising me with his speech, so soft that I could barely hear him.
“Holmes,” I hastened to reassure him, drawing him even closer, “you don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to say anything about it.”
“I owe you an explanation, Watson. I’ve never spoken of it before, but you, of all people, deserve to know.”
He pulled away from me. He spent a few moments steadying himself, and then took a deep breath. “It started at university, as you can imagine. Our quiet friendship became more… intimate.”
He paused. I reached out and offered him a cigarette from the table, but he shook his head and gave me a brief smile. He then closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto the sofa.
“You may not believe this Watson,” he continued, “but I was quite young and innocent, naïve really. Trevor was, fortunately, kind-I shudder to imagine how badly I could have been used if he had not been. I foolishly thought nothing could hurt us. I was terribly mistaken.”
He raised his head and looked at me. “I will take that cigarette now.”
I handed him his case. He lit one and inhaled deeply. I remained quiet and watched him smoke, giving him all the time he needed to collect his thoughts.
“He invited me, as I told you, to his home for the summer holidays,” Holmes finally continued quietly. “The first few days were idyllic.” He blushed slightly at the memories. “They were quite pleasurable.”
“I don’t know if Trevor senior deduced the nature of my relationship with his son. I find it difficult to believe that he did not, but I have learned that people can be terribly unobservant. I do know, however, that Trevor senior was distressed after I made my startling deductions about his previous life. He was quite uneasy in my presence after that point. Thus, as I told you, I cut my visit short, a decision that I regret to this day. Perhaps I could have prevented the tragedy that occurred to the Trevor family had I been there. Perhaps I could have thwarted that terrible sailor from Trevor senior’s past. ”
He sighed heavily, and viciously stubbed out his cigarette. He drew another one.
“I returned to London,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “and buried my disappointment in my chemistry experiments. Victor Trevor, however, took to writing. Sometime during the summer he wrote a letter to me, describing our exploits in rather explicit detail. I think he did it to stave off his loneliness and confusion as to the events occurring in his home. As the situation with the sailor Hudson, who, as you recall, was blackmailing his father, became more and more intolerable, Victor Trevor turned to remembering more pleasant times, mainly our encounters earlier that summer. I was not named in the correspondence, but it certainly would not be difficult to figure out that I was his… partner… in these activities.”
“As you can imagine, Hudson must have found the letter. He was already furious with young Trevor for disrupting his plans and was thus determined to get his revenge. He sold the letter to Milverton, who confronted Trevor shortly after his father’s death. I don’t know if he thought that there was significantly more money in the estate than there actually was, or if he always planned to make an example out of Trevor in order to further his other schemes. Needless to say, Trevor refused to pay.”
“But whom did Milverton send the letter to?” I questioned. “What more could Trevor possibly have had left to lose?”
“The villain sent the letter to the dean of our university,” Holmes said very quietly. “I truly think that he meant to show some other student or students, possibly even Musgrave for instance, that he meant business. Trevor was just a convenient tool.”
I looked at Holmes in horror. “How obvious was it that you were the intended recipient?” I asked worriedly.
Holmes smiled at me sadly. “I was brought before the dean for questioning. The letter, of which I had previously known nothing about, was read to me. I think in some ways that was the most difficult part of this whole affair-having my friend’s words of caring read in a tone of such scorn and derision. There was no one else suspected since it was well known that I planned to spend the summer with him. I attempted to deny any knowledge and proclaim that this was a work of fiction on Trevor’s part.”
“They did not believe you.”
He lit another cigarette and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “They asked me to do the unthinkable. They told me that all would be forgiven, and this incident forgotten, if I would help the police to capture and arrest Trevor for sodomy and unlawful acts.”
I didn’t know what to say. I clasped his hand and held it tightly.
After a moment, he continued. “I refused of course. I was immediately expelled.”
“Good heavens, Holmes.”
“That was not the worst of it, Watson,” he said with a sorrow laden voice. “It was too late in the day to depart, so I sent a telegram to my brother asking him if I could stay with him for a few days, commencing on the morrow. The following morning, as I was preparing to leave for the train to London, I received a telegram from my father.”
Holmes had never, in all the years I had known him, spoken of his father. I waited in trepidation.
“That’s a telegram I shall never forget, Watson,” Holmes continued in a tight voice. “It read simply: ‘You are disowned’.”
I gasped, horrified. “Dear Lord.”
“Yes. My father disowned me outright. The dean must have sent him a telegram regarding my expulsion. There were no questions, no chance for explanations. As far as he was concerned, his son Sherlock ceased to be.”
“My dear-“ I choked on his name.
“Brother Mycroft was equally disgusted, but at least he acknowledged our bond of kinship. Furthermore, in fairness to him, he has always held me out as his brother, disregarding our father’s wishes. However, he did not want a sodomite staying with him for long, and so I was forced out into my own rooms rather quickly.”
“My God.” I could feel my indignation rising.
“You do understand, of course, why I was so reluctant to let you know of my inclination. If my own family was so utterly disgusted, how could I expect you to react? But you, again, surprised me, Watson.”
“I would support you no matter what, even if I did not share the same inclination. You must believe that.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“You seem to be on somewhat friendly terms with you brother,” I offered hesitantly.
“My relationship with brother Mycroft has improved tremendously over the years and he… well, not exactly accepts my behavior, but he completely ignores it. He did insist on meeting you, however, all those years ago, to ensure that I wasn’t corrupting you, as he put it.”
“Ah, if he had only known how many times I had contemplated corrupting you,” I said with a little smile.
Holmes gave me one of his half smiles. “Yes, I actually think that would have surprised him. He thought you had fine morals, although a bit pedestrian. He truly would be shocked to discover that he missed something so significant in his deductions.”
“Well, you may tell him one day if you wish to upset him.”
“I don’t think I shall. But I shall act smugly if he mentions your name, and that will infuriate him.”
Although I have to admit that I found the idea of infuriating Mycroft Holmes to be quite pleasing, my focus was on Holmes’ tale. “What happened to Victor Trevor?” I enquired. “You said when you first told me the story that he had left the country and went to the Terai tea plantation. Did you ever see him again?”
Holmes’ mood shifted. “Yes,” he said soberly. “I met with him once more before he left England.” Holmes sighed heavily. “Trevor sent me a message, using the same code that his father had used in his correspondence. I’m quite lucky that Mycroft was at work when the message arrived or he would have deciphered it in mere seconds. Trevor asked me to meet him down by the docks.”
I could see that this memory pained Holmes and I wished there was something I could do to comfort him. Without thought, I placed my hand upon his shoulder. He gave me a brief, sad smile.
“He was waiting for me when I arrived,” Holmes continued. “He was disguised, of course, but I knew him immediately. We didn’t even shake hands. We pretended to be two men, complete strangers, standing at the dock and watching the water.
“He told me he was going to leave the country and apologized for the trouble he caused me. I did not tell him I had been disowned; after all, what could he do? I asked where he was going. ‘India, Nepal, anywhere,’ he replied. He had booked passage on a ship that was leaving later that afternoon.
“He looked so lost, Watson. I’ll never forget how lost he looked. His father’s death, the terrible truth surrounding it, and this final calamity seemed to have crushed his very spirit.
“I remember our last exchange as if it had happened yesterday. He turned toward me and looked me straight in the eye.
“’Do you know what I want more than anything?’ he asked me.
“I shook my head.
“’I want to kiss you one more time,’ he said. It took all my willpower not to reach for him and fulfill his wish.
“He held out his hand and I clasped it in mine. Then he turned and walked away. I never saw him again.”
“Is that why you don’t kiss, Holmes?” I found myself asking. “In remembrance of Victor Trevor.”
“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “Foolish, isn’t it?”
“No,” I said very softly. “Not at all.”
“It’s not that I hadn’t thought about kissing, well, at least when I thought about you, Watson,” he said with a shy smile. “It’s just that I refused to act.”
“I’m sorry if I forced you,” I said sadly.
“There was no force involved. I did what I had wanted to do for years.”
I gave him a brief smile. “Do you know where Trevor is now?”
Holmes nodded. “He’s dead.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“I tried to find him during my travels, Watson. I learned that he had died some years earlier and that he was always a broken man.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said solemnly.
“Yes, I believe you are. It does seem a high price to pay for a bit of a youthful indiscretion, does it not?”
“Yes indeed,” I agreed vehemently. “No wonder you had such a loathing for Milverton.”
“Milverton,” Holmes spat the name. “I hated him, Watson. There were many times I wished him dead. But now that it’s over, I feel quite numb about it all. I could have done something to prevent what happened tonight, yet I chose not to. What type of monster does that make me?”
“Stop this, Holmes,” I exclaimed. He looked at me, startled.
“What happened tonight was not your fault,” I continued. “Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton died as a consequence of his own actions. You could not have stopped it; the lady was quite determined. Had you interfered, you may be lying dead as well. No, in fact your presence there tonight helped many others. Your destruction of those horrific letters will save many people embarrassing and painful questioning.”
“You make it too easy to rationalize my behavior, Watson.”
“It’s what I believe.”
He leaned his head back against the couch again. I put my hand upon his arm in an attempt to comfort him.
“You must understand,” Holmes continued, “that what I felt with Trevor wasn’t love. It was infatuation. We both knew it wouldn’t last. In fact, I doubt it would have survived the next term.”
He lifted his head and touched my chin, turning me to face him. He looked me straight in the eye. “No, Watson, it wasn’t love. It was nothing like what I feel for you.”
I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat.
Holmes smiled gently, using one of his long, thin fingers to trace my cheek. He leaned over and brought his lips to mine. The kiss was slow, almost delicate, but full of intense emotion.
We broke apart and he put his head on my shoulder. “My dear Watson,” he sighed.
I kissed his hair gently, then rested my cheek atop of his head. It was one of the most perfect moments of my life.
The events of the evening finally caught up with us and we both fell asleep, exhausted, leaning against each other on the sofa.
Holmes woke me in the morning, urging me to change out of my dress clothes and into a more suitable daytime attire. He had already done so. Our breakfast was a silent affair and Holmes seemed rather distracted. We settled down for our morning pipes. I was about to question him about his silence although, truly, I had no idea what I would say, when Lestrade burst in to seek assistance in solving Milverton’s murder. Holmes diverted his request rather handily, but returned to being silent and aloof after the Inspector’s departure.
He was deep in thought, that much was obvious. I could tell from the occasional glances in my direction that, whatever else he was contemplating, I was definitely on his mind.
During lunch he stood up unexpectedly. “Walk with me,” he stated.
Of course I joined him wherever he would lead.
We walked through the bustling London streets, but my friend’s oppressive silence remained. Finally I could stand it no longer. “Holmes,” I said forcefully.
He stopped and looked at me, startled. The pedestrians continued to pass us by as we stood stationary in the swirl of the busy streets of London.
“Nothing need change, you know,” I stated.
“Is that what you want?” he asked. I could hear by the slight tightness of his voice that my comment was not been what he had hoped to hear.
“I want my friend, first and foremost, Holmes,” I replied quietly yet firmly. “Then I want you to be comfortable with whatever is between us.”
“Is this really a conversation we should be having in the middle of the street?” he asked quietly.
I started and then I could feel myself flush. “My apologies,” I murmured. I resumed walking.
Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway. “You’ll be the death of me yet, Watson,” he said with an exasperated tone.
“Let’s just keep walking, Holmes,” I remarked, slightly petulantly I will admit.
“No. You’re right. We must reach some resolution.” His tone was quiet, yet adamant.
I looked at the street. Everyone went by, ignoring us in favor of their own hectic lives.
“You said you want me to be comfortable,” Holmes continued, his voice low. “What if I want more than what we currently share?” he challenged.
“Then I am willing. In fact, enthusiastically willing.”
“And if I don’t?” He looked at me, his grey eye penetrating.
I swallowed hard. “I’m willing for that as well.” My voice dropped until it was barely above a whisper. “It is your friendship that is most important to me, Holmes. That is something I could not bear to lose.”
“That is something you need never fear,” said he. He pulled out his cigarette case and offered me one, taking a cigarette for himself as well. We smoked in silence for a few moments and watched the street. Finally he turned toward me. “Actually, my dear Watson, I’ve been wondering exactly how I should go about courting you.”
I blinked in surprise. Then, I must admit, I could not help myself-I burst out laughing, both relieved at his apparent interest and amused at the concept of Holmes wooing anyone, least of all me.
“I hardly see the humor in the situation,” he huffed and tried to walk away.
I caught his arm and pulled him back into the doorway, trying to suppress my mirth. “Holmes,” said I, although I could still hear the laughter in my voice, “the purpose of courting is to enable the couple to become better acquainted.” I lowered my voice. “We’ve known each other for years-over a decade, in fact. I think we’re far past the courting stage.”
“That may be,” Holmes sniffed, and I could tell that he was still perturbed by my reaction. “However,” he added, his voice also dropping quite low, “there are certain aspects about you, John Watson, that are unknown to me.” He smiled at me in what can only be called an utmost seductive manner. “I’m quite interested in learning more about you.”
I think I gave a little gasp.
He linked his arm in mine and we continued our walk. I glanced, nervously, at the strangers in the street, certain that they could sense the shift in our relations. The intensity of the connection between us had to be almost screaming out in its obviousness. Yet no one paid us any attention at all.
“They’ll never know,” Holmes said quietly, deducing the cause of my anxiety. “As much as I’d like to shout it from The Monument, no one will know.”
I was going to admonish him on the need to be careful, but then I noticed the sad expression upon his face and decided that it was unnecessary. Holmes, of all people, knew the need for discretion in such an affair. So instead I tightened my grip upon his arm and we continued our stroll.
He finally led me back to Baker Street. Safe in our own sitting room, I knew that we could both sense this current of excited, awkward tension between us. I went to put my hand upon his arm when he leapt up suddenly and strode toward the door.
He turned back to face me. “Have supper with me tonight,” he blurted out. He looked almost surprised by his words.
“Is this a rendezvous?” I asked with just a slight tinge of amusement to my voice.
Holmes scowled at me. “I merely wish to have supper with you tonight.”
“We have supper together most nights,” I pointed out.
“I thought we would go to Marcini’s,” said he with a nonchalance I could tell he did not feel.
I smiled at him, and his scowl deepened, but I was careful not to show too much of my mirth. “Marcini’s would be lovely,” I agreed.
“Then I’ll see you this evening,” said he, and all but fled from our rooms. I heard the front door open and then he was gone. I found myself chuckling quietly at Holmes’ manner.
I spent the day divided between reading and dozing, for the events of the past night had been quite strenuous and I was left feeling rather weary. Sometime around half past five I got up and returned to my bedroom, where I got dressed for the evening. While I was getting ready, I could hear Holmes return. The slamming of the doors informed me that he had disappeared into his bedroom, most likely to ready himself as well. I returned to the sitting room and waited.
When Holmes entered, I believe that my breath caught in my throat for a moment. I have always found Holmes to be unbelievably attractive. I realize that he is perhaps too thin and wiry to be traditionally handsome, but the force of his magnetic personality more than made up for any physical detriments. But tonight… tonight, Holmes looked gorgeous enough to turn heads.
He was dressed in his finest suit, his dark hair slicked back, his white shirt pressed and perfect, his cufflinks gleaming. I felt absolutely shabby in comparison.
Yet his grey eyes were shining as I watched him examine me with infinite care in that singular manner of his. His gaze finally met mine. “You look quite nice tonight, Dr. Watson,” said he a bit breathlessly.
“As do you,” I managed to croak out.
He smiled his half smile and held out his hand. “Shall we go?”
I leapt to my feet, suddenly giddy at the thought of going out with Sherlock Holmes. “Yes,” I replied, and clasped his hand. He led me from our rooms.
Our cab ride to the restaurant was a combination of excited conversation and even more electric silence. “I have tickets tonight for that play you wanted to see,” Holmes blurted out at one point.
I blinked in surprise. I knew that Holmes usually preferred concerts over plays, therefore I rarely mentioned shows that interested me and I usually went alone. “Which play was that?” I enquired.
“’The Fatal Card,’” he replied.
I could not hide my astonishment. “You bought tickets to a melodrama about a murder that I’m certain you could solve in thirty seconds with your eyes closed?”
He sniffed. “You wanted to see it, did you not?”
I did not even bother to ask how he knew that since I was sure I had never told him. “Well, yes-” I began.
“Now you shall.” He looked out at the street as if bored by the whole proceedings.
I took his hand and held it tightly in my own. “Thank you, Holmes.”
He gave me his little half smile.
I squeezed his hand even tighter. “Thank you.”
He looked over at me and smiled fully. Then he flushed and looked away. I continued to hold his hand until we reached the restaurant.
I honestly cannot remember most of our conversation, or what we ate, or anything about the evening except the undercurrent of excited tension between us. I observed everything about him-the way he moved, the way he ate his food, the way he used his hands, the way he swallowed his cognac. It was if I was seeing the essence of him, handsome and exhilarating, and I must admit that I found the experience to be rather thrilling. I forced myself to keep my breathing steady and I could tell from my observations of Holmes that he was doing the same.
Of course, this newfound knowledge excited me even more, and further increased the level of tense attraction between us.
At some point during the meal, Holmes leaned forward and stated, “I’ve been making some discreet enquires. It seems that Lestrade is focusing his investigations on plumber named Escott, of dubious background.”
“Can this plumber be traced?” I asked worriedly.
“No,” he assured me. “Not even his fiancée knows anything about his whereabouts.”
My mood abruptly darkened and I could feel myself scowl.
“However,” Holmes hurried on, “the plumber’s bitter rival for the lady’s hand has stepped in to provide her comfort, and I would be quite surprised if happy nuptials did not soon follow.”
I felt my scowl lessen, but I was still annoyed. “You owe me some sort of compensation for your behavior.”
Holmes’ smile was actually lascivious. “My dear sir, I plan to start to make it up to you tonight.”
I could not contain the shudder of anticipation that went through me. Holmes smile broadened as we moved on to other topics.
My enjoyment of the play that evening was tempered by the fact that I hardly paid any attention to it at all. I was far more aware of Holmes sitting beside me, his leg pressed against mine. The sound of his breath permeated my brain far more than the speech of the actors, and I must admit that I spent nearly as much time secretly side-glancing over at him than I did on watching the performance.
I expected a bit of a diatribe on the way home, for what I did notice about ‘The Final Card’ was enough to assure me that Holmes would have serious complaints. From the false accusations of murder against the innocent man to the villain’s sudden shift in conscience and finally dying due to a bomb of his own making, Holmes was sure to have loathed the very concepts of this melodrama. But he was surprisingly quiet on our cab ride home.
“How did you like the performance?” I finally ventured to ask him.
He looked at me, and even in the dark I could make out the fiercest expression of longing that I have ever seen on another’s face, especially one directed at me.
“I hardly noticed the show,” he admitted after a few moments of intense silence between us. He looked away.
I focused on my breath in order to prevent myself from reaching out to him.
Upon arriving home, we slowly ascended the seventeen steps leading to our rooms. Holmes closed and locked the door behind us. He turned to me.
“A brandy?” he asked.
“Yes. A brandy would be nice,” I answered very quietly.
I sat on the sofa as he poured the drinks. He walked across our sitting room and handed me the glass. I took a sip as he sat down beside me.
I do not know which of us made the first move. I believe we probably reached for each other simultaneously, because suddenly we were kissing.
The previous few kisses I had shared with Holmes had been gentle, tentative things. These were not. These were filled with passion and longing and years of desire. I think my drink fell to the floor, but I did not notice.
I felt his hand on my neck urging me closer. I happily complied and twined my arms around him. We broke apart slightly, and our breathing echoed in the room’s silence.
He opened his eyes and I could see longing warring with disbelief. He reached out and touched my face almost tentatively, as if afraid I was not real. I leaned in and kissed him again, more tenderly this time, coaxing his response and gently leading him.
The small whimper of pleasure that he gave was one of the most erotic sounds I have ever heard.
He pulled back and looked at me carefully. “Come to bed with me,” he finally whispered.
I nodded my agreement, too overwhelmed to speak.
He led me to his bedroom, which was perhaps not the wisest choice since we were more apt to be either heard or disturbed there. It did, however, have the benefit of being closer. He closed and locked the door behind us. The fireplace was burning and provided a golden glow to the room. Holmes stoked the fire and then turned toward me.
I found myself looking down at the bed, the stark reality of the situation hitting me all at once. I suppose I must have stood there, frozen, for quite a few moments.
He placed his hand gently upon my shoulder. I started and looked up into his face. His eyes were shining brightly. He touched my face, tracing my cheeks, my nose, my moustache. I drew his finger into my mouth. His breath caught as I took in more of his digit, adding a gentle suction.
He withdrew his finger with a slight moan and then kissed me fiercely. We fell onto his bed, and I began to slowly remove his clothes, kissing everywhere there was newly exposed skin. Eventually his patience began to wear thin, because he snapped, “I am not a woman, Watson. There is no need for such extended care.”
I looked up at him in surprise, but then realized that if most of his lovemaking were with anonymous partners, gentleness and extended foreplay were unlikely to be part of his normal experiences. I smiled at him, and could see his confused scowl in the firelight.
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “you obviously have not had the benefit of a well-thought-out seduction.” I then placed my mouth over one of his nipples and began to slowly and tenderly suck.
His answering gasp encouraged me to double my efforts.
I let my mouth taste him everywhere-his chest, his ribs, his concave stomach. I took my time and let my senses become enraptured with the taste and feel of Sherlock Holmes. I followed the line on dark hair downward until I reach his trousers. I slowly unbuttoned his flies.
When I finished, his glorious manhood was revealed-hot, heavy, and hard, seeking my touch. I did not even stop to think about how long it had been since I had engaged in a similar act; I drew him into my mouth to taste him. I could hear his strangled cry of rapture as I focused on my task.
After a few moments I felt his strong hands upon me, his fingers gripping my shoulders fiercely as he tried to pull me up. Part of me longed to bring him to glory then and there, but another part, the more selfish part perhaps, was reluctant to let the events of the evening end so quickly.
I sat back and looked up at him. His chest was rising rapidly with his heavy breath and his eyes were gleaming as they met mine. I could tell he had been biting on his lips and I longed to taste him all over again.
I began to remove my clothes and I encouraged him to do the same. When we were done, he looked at me with undisguised longing.
I lay over him, hardness to hardness, feeling his body beneath my own. He drew me closer.
I held him down and kissed him repeatedly. At first I could tell that he wished to move on to other acts, but I persisted. He was someone who had not learned the sensual aspects of a kiss, and I was determined that he would enjoy all that it could entail. He began to respond beautifully, his hand roaming down my back, his kisses becoming frantic expressions of his desire. I broke away slightly and then kissed his neck, his checks, his ears, anywhere I could reach while lying prone upon him, bodies pressed together.
Eventually he grabbed my face between his hands and pulled my head back slightly. He looked me straight in the eyes and panted, “There’s oil on the nightstand. Use it.”
I will not deny the electric jolt of desire that ran through my body at his declaration. He leaned his head back and I could not help but plant kisses all along his neck.
“Please,” he finally rasped.
It was not my intention to reduce him to begging. I knew that I could never withstand the force of Holmes anywhere, and his bedroom was certainly no exception. I reached out to his nightstand and grabbed the bottle of oil.
As I readied him I began to feel some slight trepidation. It had been close to fifteen years since I had lain with another man, and I could tell by Holmes’ tenseness that it had been some time since he had engaged in this act as well. Then I found that spot inside him and he cried out in delight, which further flamed my need for him. When he began to push himself onto my fingers, I knew that he was ready. I could wait no longer.
Entering Sherlock Holmes for the first time was almost sacred. There was heat, and tightness, and I could sense him all around me-the smell of him was in my nose, the taste of him on my tongue, the sight of him in my eyes, the feel of him on my skin, and his cries, his glorious, joyful cries filled my ears. All of my senses were consumed by him.
I was gentle and careful, and he was desperate and needful. He pulled me toward him, using his wiry strength that I had so long admired. He pulled me deeply inside of him, and I kissed him and thrust into his heat.
I was rapidly losing control and I wished for him to reach that plateau with him. I took his hardness into my hand and stroked him in time with my movements. He lasted a few more moments, then he cried out, and I could feel him tighten around me as he reached his release, his warm wetness spreading between us. I followed almost immediately after, my own cries of pleasure slightly muffled by the crook of his neck.
I lay heavily on top of him for a few moments, trying to catch my breath. I then became more aware of my surroundings and took my weight off of him; he gave a little moan. I slowly pulled out and I could hear him hiss with some discomfort.
“Are you all right?” I asked worriedly, and thought about rushing off for my medical kit.
He chuckled softly and drew me back toward him, kissing me gently. “I’m fine,” he said quietly.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” I demanded.
Holmes smiled. I think it was the happiest, most genuine smile I had ever seen on his face. “I’m absolutely fine, Watson.”
I insisted upon cleaning us up, and surreptitiously checking him over. However, knowing his fastidious nature as I did, I could tell he was pleased by my actions.
Eventually I settled back down onto his bed, lying next to him, his head on my chest, and I gently stroked his raven hair.
“It is different, you know,” he said quietly, putting his arm around me and drawing me closer.
“What is?” I asked.
“The feelings of intimacy, when you lay with someone you care about, as opposed to someone… you don’t.” He spoke as if a mantle of loneliness lay upon his shoulders, his voice quiet yet echoing years of sadness.
I cupped his chin and drew his face up toward mine. I kissed him gently but thoroughly. He laid his head back on my chest.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. “I should have approached you years ago.”
He shook his head. “Would you truly have been able to have done this freely all those years ago, Watson? Could you really have come to me in the ’80’s-before your marriage, before your losses-and have approached me and, perhaps most importantly, stayed with me without regret?” He kissed my chest. “No,” he continued, “I think it is better this way. Now at least we have a chance.”
I pulled him closer to me and kissed the top of his head. “I love you,” I murmured, holding him tight. I could feel his answering smile.
“Do you really?” he asked. “I am very glad to hear it, for you have held my heart for years.”
I pulled him tighter into my embrace and stroked his hair as we drifted off to sleep.
We shifted positions during the night and I awoke at some point to feel Holmes’ chest pressed against my back. His hands roamed along my body and he was gently kissing my neck. I moaned softly in the darkened room. The fire had burned down; the light was low and full of shadows.
He pulled me closer and, now knowing that I was awake, began to apply more pressure. His hands stroked my chest, my stomach, my sides, moving ever downward to my rapidly stiffening member. His kisses became firmer, and I could feel him sucking on the point where my neck meets my shoulder. My breath was growing ragged.
His hand found its ultimate goal and I moaned softly as he began to stroke my hardness. He teased me, bringing me near the point of release, then removed his hand. I believe I whimpered. He then moved his hand backward, gently stroking the entrance to my body, silently asking permission.
I nodded. I knew he could feel my assent.
His hand moved away but came back quickly, an oily substance coating his fingers. He gently pushed one into me.
This was an act that I had done infrequently, even when I had lain with a man. Yet Holmes unerringly found my pleasure gland, his strokes maddening me. I pushed back against him, demanding more.
Holmes added another finger. There was more pressure, more pleasure. He then withdrew his hand and slowly, inexorably entered me, his manhood driving into my very core.
He pulled me as close to him, thrusting gently, one hand on my chest, the other beginning to stroke my member. Our ragged breaths entwined, echoing in the dark. I felt utterly consumed by him; he was surrounding me, entering me, claming me.
My climax came upon me unexpectedly; I was surprised by it intensity. Holmes followed immediately after and I could feel his release filling me. I was stunned by how erotic it felt.
He pulled out of me gently, then turned me over so that I was on my back. He lay beside me, his face over just mine. I could barely make out his features in the low firelight, but I could see that he was slightly agitated. He opened his mouth and I just knew he was going to ask if I was all right. I reached up quickly and grasped his face, bringing him down to me for a kiss.
We broke apart and he smiled, his eyes soft. He kissed my forehead, then moved and proceeded to find a cloth to clean us both. When we were finished, this time I lay with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, as he held me close and gently stroked my back as I fell asleep.
When I awoke, filtered sunlight was streaming through the curtains. I was momentarily disoriented and then, with a start, I remembered where I was. I unthinkingly cast around for Holmes in the bed, but I was alone.
I sat up and looked around groggily for my clothes. They were gone, but a fresh nightshirt and my dressing gown were neatly folded on bureau. I smiled and threw them on.
I made my way to our bathroom and quickly saw to my toilet. I then returned to our sitting room. I hesitated slightly at the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.
Holmes was sitting at the dining table, reading the paper, breakfast dishes in front of him. He was already dressed, but wearing his dressing gown instead of a jacket. It looked like he had actually eaten heartily, judging by his empty plate. He glanced up from his reading and gave me one of his half smiles.
“Good morning, slug-a-bed,” said he. “I wondered if you would ever wake up.”
I made my way to the table. “The past few nights have been rather… exciting. I suppose I was tired.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, looking back at the paper.
I stood before the table and was struck with the ridiculous idea to lean down and kiss him. I resisted the impulse, however, knowing that although Holmes had allowed me access to his person last night, he was still intensely private and would be unlikely to welcome such closeness. I sat down instead and began to eat my food.
Holmes gave me a queer look over the top of the newspaper, then returned to his reading.
There was a comfortable silence as I began to break my fast. I suddenly found myself ravenous.
Holmes put down his paper and looked at me, a contented smile still playing on his face. He then shook himself a little and picked up a telegram. “I’ve received a note from Hopkins. He’ll be around in a little while. It seems that there is a bit of a mystery surrounding a disturbance down at the docks.”
“Will you take the case?” I enquired around a mouthful of egg.
“Most likely. Hopkins rarely disappoints, and perhaps it would be best if I don’t turn down too many Scotland Yard requests. No need to raise any suspicion.”
“When will he arrive?”
“No later than half an hour,” Holmes answered. “You might want to finish you breakfast and then get dressed. Hopkins would likely be scandalized to see you in a nightshirt so late in the morning.” The look he gave me was positively lascivious.
I flushed slightly and looked down at my plate.
“You might want to wear a high cravat as well, my dear Watson,” he added.
I looked up at him. He stood up and came around the table until he was next to me. He touched my neck gently. “You’ve got a bit of a bruise here,” he whispered, stroking my neck.
I shuddered in pleasure.
He started to stroke my hair. I leaned into his caress.
“You know I’ll ignore you terribly during the case,” he said quietly.
I met his eyes. “I know you, Holmes. I would expect nothing less.”
He continued to gently run his fingers through my hair.
“But,” I added, “I expect you to more than make it up to me when you are finished.”
He smiled broadly and then leaned down. My lips met his in a passionate kiss, which I had been longing for since I first saw him that morning.
We broke apart and he pulled back. “I shall look forward to meeting your expectations, my dear Watson,” he said with a purr. I felt my breath quicken.
Holmes swallowed and then turned. He walked to his room. “I must get ready for Hopkins’ arrival,” he called out. “I suggest that you finish your breakfast and get dressed.”
I looked after him for a moment and then attacked the food before me with a big smile, looking forward to both the excitement of the case and its promised aftermath.
------------------------
I lean back in my chair and look over these notes that I have just made. I find that I am still slightly overwrought when I recall those dramatic events from our past. Holmes will, I think, be mortified at what I have just written here.
But, my dear Holmes, you must admit that our encounter with Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton forever changed the nature of our partnership. I, for one, believe that it was a change for the better. In fact, it was probably the best thing that had ever happened in my life. Not just the change in our physical relations, you understand (although that is amazing), but the ongoing strength of our relationship that continues to this day.
You have returned home as I was writing this. I can sense you in your chair, smoking your pipe and reading the evening papers, yet throwing me the occasional glance and wondering what tale I am writing that has so engrossed my concentration.
I have decided that I will show you these musings, even though I had initially planned to just burn them outright. I can only imagine your cries of horror and dismay that such personal events have been committed to paper. We will surely burn these writings, together, and you will chastise me for my foolishness.
But I also think a secret part of you will be pleased to know that my feelings are as strong for you as they ever were. The beginning of our love affair is forever imprinted in my memory. Furthermore, my feelings for you have only grown, if possible, stronger as the years go by. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I always will, until death truly parts us, and then even into the great beyond.
I can hear you growing restless in your chair and know that you desire my company. I will show you these pages later this evening, after we have spent a few pleasant hours entwined on the bear skin rug in front of the fire. But for now, I will put down my pen with a flourish and welcome you home.