Fic for fleetwood mouse: In Iambic
Title: In Iambic
Author: blighted_garden
Recipient: fleetwood_mouse
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson, Mycroft, Irene, Moriarty, Moran
Warnings: Shakesperean AU, angst, vague reference to suicidal thoughts, major character death, mild period sexism, moderate violence, unhappy and happy endings.
Author’s Note: Fleetwood mouse, I hope you enjoy! This idea struck me as I was falling asleep one night, and it simply had to be done. Also, I am currently working on adding a Romeo and Juliet part - to satisfy your desire for pining and lovemaking!
Beta(s): Many many thanks to [redacted] and [redacted] for their quick betas. [redacted], you have saved me last minute more than once now, and the quality of your work is worth noting.
Summary: And if we had awoken as star-crossed lovers? Or caught by the confines of royalty and blood, the spots upon our fingers? A kiss, a kiss, my kingdom for a kiss.
PART 1 - THE TEMPEST
Dramatis Personae:
Prospero, the right duke of Milan…played by Sherlock Holmes
Antonio, his brother, the usurping duke of Milan…played by James Moriarty
Sebastian, acolyte of Antonio…played by Sebastian Moran
Ariel, an airy spirit…played by John Watson
Being overthrown by one’s own brother, cast onto a small boat with only one’s books and food for company, and finding oneself upon a deserted island were what I considered less than ideal circumstances. My magic may have assisted my survival, but it brought me little mental stimulation and human interaction. It did, however, assist me in freeing the spirit Watson from the despicable Sycorax. Making a pact with the fairy - a very handsome, albeit small man - was my only salvation amidst the boredom of living in complete isolation. In fact, Watson fulfilled my much-needed desire for companionship. He also provided me with the remarkable potential of toying with the men who had subjected me to such treachery.
It was a cool afternoon and I had settled down amidst the grass and weeds for a moment of reflection. My magic was not confined to mere petty tricks, and I often turned to divination in moments of frustration. This frequently left the impression that I was capable of mind-reading and superhuman reasoning. That is not to say that my practice did not involve a significant quantity of skill and training. Now, I was attempting to devise a plan in which I could harness my power in order to make my brother, James, and his acolyte, Sebastian, pay dearly for their misbehaviour. The solution suddenly presented itself to me with remarkable clarity.
“They are aboard a ship nearby,” said I, my eyes snapping open.
Watson appeared at my side, as he always did when I summoned him, even subconsciously. “Your brother?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, he and that companion of his, Sebastian. Watson, I know that your powers are not to be underestimated. Would you be capable of bringing them here?”
“I shall raise the winds, summon the waves and overturn their vessel. When they lose themselves in the water, I will direct their paths here,” said Watson.
I smiled, anxious for their arrival. “A tempest there shall be.”
***
Eyes and throat burning from salt, I had attempted to reestablish control of my ship. The human body is nonetheless bound by physical limitations, and I shortly found myself tipped over the rails and railing against the waves. In the darkness, I saw only the residual lights of my ship and the waving hands of Sebastian, not far from me, before I lost all consciousness. My last observation was that the storm had arisen far too suddenly and violently for it to have been the work of nature.
I awoke at morning on a sandy shore, battered but primarily intact. There were no signs of my crew, although not far from me I spotted Sebastian collapsed in the sand, his body wrapped in seaweed. I rose, walking over to him, and nudged him with my boot. He regained awareness slowly, but eventually stood.
We walked into the brush seeking shelter and clean water, although our footsteps seemed somehow manipulated. I sensed a presence directing our movements, and I suspected my intuition was correct.
***
We found little water during our first day on the island, licking the drops off leaves as an unsatisfactory means of satiation. We slept with difficulty, concerned about the potential threats hidden in the bushes nearby. Nothing came. The next day, we were walking along pursuing our search for water, for we had grown severely dehydrated, when I heard strange noises coming from Sebastian's direction.
“What an awful partnership, to be paired with you,” he muttered, barely audible.
“Did you say something, Sebastian?”
His face turned up quickly, facing mine. “Not at all, why do you ask?”
I dismissed the matter, hoping the lack of water had not led to hallucinations. Only moments later we heard a loud screech, and an immense bird came barreling towards us and struck me in the head most violently.
“Guilty, guilty,” it squawked, using its mouth to pull at my hair, plucking out several sections. It was only with Sebastian's help that I managed to dislodge the creature. I felt an ounce of fright as it vanished from our grasp and reappeared a meter or so away from us, floating in mid-air. It had a human face.
“Penance!” said the harpy. Sebastian lunged toward it, but the creature’s wings suddenly grew immense and struck Sebastian on the ground. It vanished, but I suspected that was not the last we would see of it.
In fact, the harpy continued to dog our every movement and scorned us at every opportunity through the remainder of the day, only allowing us a moment's peace when evening fell.
***
James and Sebastian spent several days wandering around the island, growing increasingly fatigued. Watson toyed with them nearly constantly, and although the arrangement was initially satisfying, I quickly grew bored.
“I grow weary,” I said.
Watson chuckled. He was seated on a rock not far from me, his legs crossed. “I suppose it is time for you to return to the more stimulating scene of Italy? Shall we bring this to an end?”
I nodded.
***
Starved as they were, the feast was surely a most wondrous sight to James and Sebastian. Watson had apparated an immense rectangular table, stacked meters high with various assortments of food . From roasts of lamb and duck to pastries of custard and fruit, the meal was grandiose. I watched from the sidelines as Sebastian’s eyes filled with greed.
“Sebastian, restrain yourself. Such magic is not of this world,” said James.
“James, we have not eaten for days,” said Sebastian. He could not contain himself for any longer, and had long since forsaken court manners. The hunger had driven him mad. He began to feast, much to James’s dismay (although he may have sneaked an apple from the banquet), but I only allowed him a few moments of indulgence before I snapped my fingers and Watson made the entire table and its contents vanish. James scowled.
I made my appearance most pompously, descending from the air on an ornate chair, its feet swallowed by dense, darkened clouds. Watson appeared at my side in harpy form, raising his eyebrows in amusement at James’s reactions.
“Holmes, of course you would go to such measures,” said James.
“Was it not most entertaining?” I countered. “Dear Watson here has been of great help to me, although my own handiwork is not to be neglected.”
“And what makes you think I will be subjected to such treachery?”
“Really, James, in the position that you now find yourself? Your arrogance is most admirable. I shall not take your life, brother,” I said, granting him mercy after such toying. “We shall return to Milan shortly, but it is evident that your place will not be upon the throne.” He would not have agreed had he not been so suitably embarrassed.
***
When all was over, it was time to speak with Watson and settle our arrangements.
“You said you would release me from this bond when order was restored,” said Watson, landing in my palm and arching an eyebrow. I reluctantly nodded, although my fingers closed slightly around him, hoping to hold him there.
“I intend to cast my books into the sea upon our return,” I said. “I shall no longer maintain such power over you, Watson. In fact, although the past few days have been satisfactory, I find it mind-numbing to possess such easy control over other beings.“
“But what of James?”
“If he is to be truly defeated, it must be with my own wit, not petty tricks.” I paused before continuing. “More importantly, when we arrive home, you will be free to leave. Your assistance has been most useful, and I am a man of my word.” I cast my eyes upon his attractive, yet miniature features.
“Might I ask why you look reluctant?” Watson asked. His expression tested me, and I found myself wondering if he could modify his size to that of a human.
“I have grown accustomed to having you by my side,” I answered simply, although he and I were aware of the existence of deeper reasons.
“Perhaps I wish to lead a free life,” said he, mildly irritated.
“Perhaps our desires are not mutually exclusive,” I responded.
Watson paused for a moment at this. “Of what use will I be to you if not in servitude?”
“A proper companionship does not bear such obligations,” I answered. I realised that more evident words would be required should I wish to convince him to stay. “I would regret never crossing paths again. I could offer you quarters in court, not far from mine.”
Watson pondered this for a moment. “You are a most curious fellow, and you are unbearable at times.” I scoffed. “Yet, there is an appeal to your reluctant humanity.” At times I underestimated Watson and his ability to pull information, as well as emotions, from me.
“I am able to pass as human should I choose, although my return with you would be under certain conditions.” I nodded. “First, no waking me at all hours of the night, unless there truly is some sort of emergency. Second, please try to keep some sense of order to your person; I do not desire to share space with a man who smells of toxic mélanges. Third, I do expect to enjoy my freedoms, and not be constantly coerced into adventuring off with you.”
With that, he shifted his form until his height slightly surpassed mine.
“I will agree upon those terms,” said I. Little did he know, he would soon be redacting his third condition.
PART 2 - HAMLET
Dramatis Personae:
Hamlet, son to the late King Hamlet, and nephew to the present King…played by Sherlock Holmes
Horatio, friend to Hamlet…played by John Watson
Polonius, Lord Chamberlain
Ophelia, daughter to Polonius…played by Irene Adler
Claudius, King of Denmark
Gertrude, Queen of Denmark
Holmes came to me one night in a considerable state of agitation. It was exceedingly late and I had awoken to a battering of noise at my door. It was only after a solid cup of brandy that Holmes began to elaborate upon the meaning of his unusual visit.
"Watson, you know I am not one who believes in the supernatural," said Holmes. I nodded. "There is no other explanation for what I have borne witness to tonight. Unless, of course, my own senses have deceived me."
I listened to his tale with avid interest, for Holmes's senses were finely honed and I doubted their potential inaccuracy. "What is it?"
"I have seen my father. Pallid, floating about. A proper ghost, not to mention his ability to communicate," said Holmes.
His father had recently passed away due to uncertain causes, and I wondered if his death had significantly affected Holmes on an emotional level. "Are you mad?" I asked, increasingly sceptical of my companion's sanity. He had, at times, indulged in mind-altering substances, although currently his pupils appeared normal and his gaze was not hazed.
"Watson, this is a very serious matter and I am not speaking in jest," Holmes responded.
I paused. "You said he could communicate; what exactly did he say?"
"That his brother Claudius, the new king, had harboured envy for my father's position of power. That Claudius, mine own uncle, took it upon himself to poison my father in order to ascend to the throne, and to marry my widowed mother."
"How are we to know if such information can be trusted?" They were the words of a spirit, after all.
"I am already investigating my father's unexpected death, yet no trace of suspicion was present in his room. My father’s corpse displayed no signs of violence, and so if it was indeed some form of foul play, I suspect poison may have been involved. I have begun to investigate the chambers of individuals who might have benefitted from my father’s death, yet I have not been able to isolate Claudius. I am developing a method of verifying Claudius's guilt."
I had high expectations of Holmes's senses of logic and deduction, but little did I know they would shortly be robbed from him.
***
Holmes spent the next day in a daze of tobacco and smoke, no doubt examining his memories for signs of Claudius's guilt. Although he bore attention to the ghost's words, he knew it was dangerous to theorise without proper facts. He soon he left his desk and headed out for the evening. Several hours later, when he returned, he settled into his preferred armchair and lit his pipe.
“Was the evening fruitful?” I asked.
“Most certainly,” said Holmes. “I met with Polonius, Lord Chamberlain, and his daughter, Irene. The woman has an exceptional sense of logic, and Polonius has always been a staunch supporter of my father. They also admitted to harbouring suspicion with regards to Claudius, and Polonius conceded that he had observed Claudius visiting a none too reputable apothecary mere days before my father’s death. ”
“What is your hypothetical course of action?” I was appalled that Holmes’s own uncle would act in such a rash, inhumane fashion. I was grateful that the same violent streak was not present in Holmes’s persona.
“I intend to kill Claudius,” said Holmes, his voice abnormally cold. I stumbled back upon my thoughts, shocked by the brutality of his intent.
“Are you certain that is wise?”
“There are no proper trials in our courts, and the only suitable course of action is to act according to talion law.” Holmes’s voice wavered as he completed his sentence, and for a moment his consciousness waned.
“Holmes, you are not well,” said I. “Perhaps you should rest and we will further discuss the matter in the morning.”
Holmes nodded, and we returned to our respective bedchambers. He was no longer the man I had grown to love, and I was certain there was an explanation for his erratic behaviour.
***
Holmes was not present in the morning. He came barging against my door in late evening, and when I opened to him he hurried inside, his face bleached of all blood.
"I killed the wrong man," said Holmes, his voice quiet, but steady.
His words rendered me frigid. "Homes! What on earth?" Despite the poor light, I noticed that his pupils were the size of pins.
"I did not mean to, it was dark, and in my mind I was certain it was Claudius."
"For God’s sake, Holmes, who was it?”
“Polonius.” After his confession came an uncomfortable moment of horror, during which I attempted to calculate the consequences of his actions.
“Does Irene know?” Holmes’s eyes widened, looking manic. He blinked several times, intentionally.
“If she does not, it will not be long. I made no attempt to dissimulate the body.”
“Holmes, I do not think it is safe for you to go outside.”
“Watson,” said Holmes, attempting to push past me. His adamance was unnerving.
I grabbed his arms, holding him in place forcefully. “You are going nowhere right now, Holmes.” He fought against my grasp, then slouched slightly, his body suddenly weakening. I made haste in returning him to his quarters, hoping that sleep might improve his condition.
The next morning, a note appeared under Holmes’s door. He showed it to me briefly before rushing off, and I had no choice but to allow for his escape, although I did not let him leave without warning him that I suspected more than blades would be at play. I also followed him, armed.
9pm - Fencing chamber
~Irene
***
When we arrived at the scene, both Claudius and his wife Gertrude had seated themselves in order to watch the match. Their presence seemed tactical, that they be there, although it was customary for the King and Queen to attend such matches. Irene stood, armed with a sword and dressed in male attire. Holmes quickly selected a weapon from the rack on the left wall, and joined her in the ring.
“You do realize that I meant no harm to Polonius,” said Holmes.
“A snake’s tongue is your greatest asset, Holmes, apart from your logic. I assure you that both will bring you little advantage here,” responded Irene.
“A toast!” interrupted Gertrude. “To Holmes, may he successfully disarm Irene, with haste!“ I realised that she must not be aware of the plotting at hand. With that, she lifted the cup of wine at hand nearby. Claudius protested discreetly for a moment, but she quickly sipped from the cup and the match began.
Holmes was a most skilled swordsman. Although his focus lay in the skills of the mind, he neglected not the ability of the body. Irene, despite her gender, nevertheless made for a formidable opponent. They parried until the sweat grew on their brows, and it was unclear who held the advantage. They each predicted the moves of the other, moving gracefully in their deadly force. It was during a moment of weakness that Irene knocked aside Holmes’s sword and stabbed him. It was not a deadly wound; Holmes quickly regained his footing and raised his own sword, within moments dealing a vicious wound to Irene, sending her reeling. Holmes’s breathing was unusually laboured, and he soon joined Irene on the ground, despite his previous health.
“Watson!” he cried. “The blades are tipped with poison!” During the violence of it all, the Queen slumped in her chair, quickly losing consciousness. The poison, I realised, coated not only the tips of the blades, but was also imbued in the wine.
I rose from my seat. Holmes was weakened, and Claudius had risen from his chair. Although I was a man who prioritised the health of others, taking up the blade was an option for me as a means of defense. I rose against Claudius, wielding my hidden blade, and my extensive sword training made quick work of him. I wondered if I should not have done such sooner, despite my opposition to violence, in order to avoid the tragic scene I now stood in. The scuffle was over, and I was the only person of any recognisable social standing still cognisant. I rushed to Holmes and found my own body mirroring his pain, although it was largely intact. My leg had been injured in the scuffle, but I suspected it could be recovered. My concern lay wholly in Holmes's condition, which was rapidly deteriorating.
"We must absolutely transfer you to a physician," said I, stabilising my wavering voice as I knelt down beside him. I may not have had any medical experience, but I suspected his blood loss was life threatening.
"It is of no use," said Holmes, attempting to turn his body to better face me and wincing in the process.
I would not accept his words. Holmes often took very poor care of himself, believing in his own body's resilience. I believed he was being stubborn, but I was very wrong.
"Watson," said Holmes, most seriously. "I will not survive the next few minutes."
His words struck me with great force. I had lived much of my life with Holmes at my side, although I had never spoken to him of how deeply my emotions ran. It was impossible to fathom a solitary life. Besides, who would lead the people with Holmes gone? The future of Denmark, as well as mine own, seemed bleak.
"Do not get any mad ideas, dear Watson," said Holmes.
"And how am I supposed to proceed, with things as they are?"
"Arrangements will be made, for there are distant royal relatives that may be called upon for assistance. In the meantime, I need you to be here." Holmes's breathing had become laboured, and I ripped a section of my blouse apart in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.
"Why?" I asked, pressing the cotton against his wound. Given the pallor of his complexion, I suspected these actions would add mere minutes to Holmes's life.
"You are a writer, a much different writer than I, but a writer nonetheless. You have witnessed all that has happened here. The tasks of the biographer shall fall upon you, should you be willing." Holmes began to cough, his throat convulsing, wheezing. I nodded. It would be done, no matter the internal searing spreading throughout my chest.
"There is something you should know," I said.
"You may want to hurry," said Holmes, his spirit not yet extinguished.
My body was already close to his. I cradled his head with one of my hands, brushing my fingers against his neck. He started, immediately understanding the intention of my action. Soon, he was leaning the side of his face against my palm. I regretted not having done so sooner, for Holmes seemed completely comfortable with my display of affection.
When our lips met I felt a light pressure of enthusiasm responding to my own, and then, there was stillness. It was only much later, when examining Claudius’s body, that I found a small packet of tobacco in his interior jacket pocket, of the same brand that only Holmes had the habit of smoking.
PART 3 - AS YOU LIKE IT
Dramatis Personae:
Duke, living in exile
Frederick, his brother, and usurper of his dominions
Charles, wrestler to Frederick
Oliver, son of Sir Rowland de Bois…played by John Watson
Rosalind, daughter to the banished Duke…played by Sherlock Holmes
Celia, daughter to Frederick…played by Mycroft Holmes
I had long since predicted the banishment of my father, Duke Senior, by his own brother, but it nevertheless created a difficult situation. My uncle allowed me to remain within the court due to my close relationship with his own son, but tensions were high. It was in an adamant attempt to avoid family conflict for the day that Mycroft and I decided to spend the afternoon recreationally occupied.
Wrestling was, no doubt, one of my preferred sports. It also required composure and stoicism from this particular audience member, although I had long grown accustomed to masking my attraction to men. My cousin and I often attended the most popular matches, to my great pleasure, although I frequently persuaded him to accompany me when a competitor of interest was participating in a less favoured venue. Word had spread of today’s contest and I was curious about the young, lean man who had brashly challenged Charles, a burly veteran wrestler.
Heat flowed through me when I saw him. His bared torso was sculpted and a visible scar upon his naked shoulder spoke of his previous combats. From a distance, I observed the outline of a bullet wound. His ruffled, brown hair spoke of his obvious lack of concern for his physical appearance and his clothing of a lack of high education. It was his face that drew me to him, though, more than his body. The outline of his features was most pleasing.
Upon first glance, I was unsure of his capacity to outwit the giant Charles. Yet, it was clear within moments of the match’s commencement that the young fighter had the upper hand. He gained his advantage not through the use of foul play, but through tactical intellect, of which Charles had little to none. I felt satisfaction as I watched his wit defeat ruffian force.
I listened intently as the new Duke Frederick asked for the young athlete’s name. “John Watson, son of Sir Rowland de Bois,” he replied. He detected my gaze upon him as he received the praise of many. His eyes remained fixed upon me, accelerating my breathing. He paused for longer than would be considered normal, and I detected a small blush in his cheek. The irrational desire to be one of the young ladies rushing to congratulate him, drawn in by his charisma, crept into my mind.
***
“Really, cousin, I expected a more believable façade,” said Mycroft later, when we had returned to the privacy of our home. His words were spoken with concern, despite their acerbic tone.
“He truly is remarkable. To think, what I might do with him,” I responded.
Mycroft was accustomed to my unusual desires. Nonetheless, he flinched slightly, no doubt made uncomfortable by an inappropriate visualization. “He did take notice of you,” said Mycroft, but our conversation was soon interrupted by Duke Frederick, who came surging into our quarters with great force.
“Insolence!” bellowed the Duke. He then proceeded to aggressively wave his arms about as if attempting to disperse a cloud of bees. “For you, to be of blood resembling mine!” He gesticulated wildly at me.
“Madness is a wondrous thing,” said Mycroft.
“You must leave, at once!” Duke Frederick cried. I suspected he was in nervous shock. Unfortunately, regardless of his lack of sense, the Duke's words would be enforced. And he was rather adamant. He only left our quarters once I conceded to joining my father in the forest of Arden.
“I suppose it shall have to be done,” I said.
“I will be coming with you,” said Mycroft.
“Why is that?”
“I would rather live in a forest,” said Mycroft, “than here amongst these madmen.” I suspected he would have also missed my presence should we have been separated. “I assure you,” Mycroft continued, “it will be of no deficit to me. I assume you will be wearing women’s clothing as a means of disguise?”
“Yes. And you, concealed as a beggar, perhaps?” Mycroft nodded.
We fled the court that night. Little did I know, the young wrestler had also escaped to Arden, although for different motives.
***
I quickly realised that women’s clothing, with its ruffles and flounces, was no comfortable habit to traverse a forest with. I had grown accustomed to the impracticality of such wear in the city, but the branches and brambles made even the simple attire I had selected unbearable. The weather was hot, and I was sweating through the layers of cloth.
“Quite alright, cuz?” Mycroft jabbed.
“Let’s just say I would rather be back at the wrestling match,” I replied, wondering how I could possibly pursue a man such as the young wrestler in the middle of a forest.
“Seems as though you are not the only love-stricken person within these grounds,” said Mycroft. I had of course noticed the verses of poetry pinned upon the trees. The writing was plainly painful to read, sodden with emotion as it was. I could not understand how someone might fathom that placing such drivel in plain view was a proper idea.
Mycroft and I continued for some time, until we found a rock that formed a small shelter. We settled down and I began to pluck the burrs from my skirts, much to Mycroft’s amusement. We had not met any persons during our walk, despite the others who were likewise banished here. It was indeed strange to think of a life within the forest, where the law and structure of civilisation held no function. I contemplated what sorts of behaviour a man might be driven to in such conditions, lacking the nourishment and comforts of court life. The wind dried the sweat from my body, and, as a particularly strong gust blew, I caught the strain of a noise not far from us.
“My, my,” said Mycroft, spotting the individual before I had the chance to rise and improve my vantage point. My, my, indeed. It was the young wrestler, John Watson, paper and pen in hand, scribbling away. Upon the same stationery we had mocked merely moments ago. I brought a hand to my head.
“Your young wrestler, so very lovesick! Are you certain he’s the type of individual you’d be interested in sharing companionship with?” Mycroft certainly had a flair for making an awkward situation increasingly uncomfortable. I pondered how to respond, when an appropriate course of action suddenly struck me.
“Remain here, Mycroft,” I said, my voice a convincing, feminine falsetto. “And let us see what may be accomplished.”
***
“Young lad, are you the man leaving notes upon the trees?” I feigned innocence. Watson started at my unexpected presence, as I had crept up quietly.
“Yes, it is I. Who have I the pleasure of making the acquaintance?”
“Rosalind,” said I, “although I am not sure I share a similar pleasure.” Watson started at my blunt propos.
“Is it truly love that sends a man to such heights, or merely infatuation? And is this writing supposed to woo the lady of your desires, or send her running at such soft words being uttered by a man?” A distinct moment of quiet followed my questions.
“My words may not be the most eloquent.”
“Indeed they are not.”
“But they are embellished by their truth.”
I scoffed, perhaps too roughly, for Watson looked slightly wounded. I hoped an offer to help him would improve his spirits.
“I presume you are in grave need of assistance with your ailment,” said I, for an ailment it certainly seemed to be. “Or you require great lessons on how to properly woo this lady of yours, should you be adamant. Which shall you choose?” Watson again looked put aback. I concede, it was unusual for a lady to speak in such a forward manner, but I was curious as to how Watson would respond to wit, and not the delicate drooping of a rose.
“Are you offering me assistance?” he asked. “I’m afraid I am not utterly comfortable discussing such matters with a woman.”
I scoffed again, more delicately this time. “Yet, it is a woman who is best able to advise you on what she expects in a proper courtship. I am no gentle flower, I assure you, and I fear not speaking of love. You may address me as you would a man.”
Watson looked distinctly uncomfortable at this moment, but I could see the intrigue in his visage. “Very well. I wish not to forget about my love, but to learn to better manage and act upon it.”
“That is easily attainable.”
And so it began.
***
The first few days were difficult. Watson often stumbled during our discussions, unsure of how to speak with me and wary of broaching topics he deemed unsuitable for a lady. After several interventions of my own, though, he began to speak more openly, even regarding more risqué topics.
“When you kiss her, you must not forget her neck, or the hair that is draped there. How long is her hair?”
Watson hesitated for a moment. “Quite short,” he replied. “It stops at the back of her neck.”
I continued to lecture, although it was strange for a woman to keep her hair at such a length. Watson had not used any pronouns in his verses. I hoped it was not an inflated ego that led me to believe he might be an invert, as I. Mycroft, always watching from afar, had similar suspicions after I recounted our daily discussions.
***
“A lady wishes to adventure with her lover, not only to be secure. If the occasion presents itself, fencing with your lover can be a most pleasant activity, although real danger is far more appealing to a young woman.”
“A sword? Danger?” Watson raised his eyebrows incredulously.
I nodded. “Do not question my methods.”
Watson chuckled. “You are a most strange woman.”
***
“Do you fancy me?” I asked one morning, after having spent several weeks in Watson’s presence. Watson stuttered, but did not redden.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied, “although there is something appealing about you. Perhaps it is merely the first time I ever encountered a woman of your kind.” For a brief moment, his eyes grew sly, as though seeing through me.
“Likely. In any case, what does she look like? I might be able to improve my costume to better suit our purpose.” Watson laughed at this.
“I doubt any costume would do her justice. Her hair is dark, black almost. Her eyes are a deep brown, much like yours, actually.”
I decided it was time.
***
Three weeks after our initial meeting, I cast aside my female garments. Watson had suspected my underlying identity, yet his shock at our first meeting was evident. I wore, beneath my male jacket, a blouse of the same fabric as the dress I had adorned the day before. I approached him quietly, wary of spooking him. He surprisingly placed his hand around mine and pulled me closer. There is one thing I may not always be able to predict perfectly, and that is the human condition.
“You are very handsome today, Rosalind,” he said, pressing a kiss against my neck. I pulled back and pressed our mouths together. He brought a hand to the nape of my neck, running his fingers through the short hair there. I chuckled - he was indeed a quick study. We remained as such for countless moments. I reveled in this first kiss with another man, and my hands wandered to explore his body, a mirror of mine. I sensed the beginning of a future, although who is to say if it was merely infatuation at the time? I know better now.
“They often speak of marriage, in these forests,” whispered Watson suddenly.
“Really now, I thought I had taught you such things were not for discussion at so early a time. Tut tut.”
“It was merely a statement,” said Watson, lightheartedly, “although I did intend to throw you. We are, after all, men.” I pulled him closer, pressing his lips against mine, reveling in the feel of his stubble.
“We are, after all, within the forest of Arden,” said I. “Who is to say what should or should not happen?”
FIN (?)