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The True Nature of Love	By : ladinechan Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 4249 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-The True Nature of Love
- 1
Title: The True Nature of Love
Unbetaed (Any volunteers?)
Pairing: W/H
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: +8k

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“Why is so cold in here, Watson?” he asked, irritably.

“It’s December, it is supposed to be cold,” said I. Then I realised it might have sounded a little curt, so I tried to amend it a second later. “You should take a bath. It should help you to warm up.” He looked up at me with a helpless expression which pained me to no end. “I shall talk with Mrs. Hudson,” I smiled at him, “it will not be but a moment. You will feel better very soon.”

“What would I do now without you, my dear Watson?” He asked, with a self-deprecated smile that hurt me as few things did. What would you do, indeed?

*

“Easy, my friend, let me help you.”

“I’m not an old lady.”

“Of course you are not.”

“You would not be here if I were, would you?”

“Precisely.” He was already in the bathtub, so I let go of him. “Is the water hot enough?”

“Scalding.” I laughed at that.

“My mission is accomplished then, I shall leave you now.”

“Oh no, stay, Watson.”

“As you wish.” I looked round, searching for the stool we kept in the bathroom. He started his ablutions, while I made myself comfortable.

*

“I know I’m being a nuisance to you,” he said, emerging from the bottom of the tub, his skin pink and shiny.

“Not at all, my…”

“I am!” he cried, “I am,” he said, in a lower tone. “That is a fact. It is also a fact that you are willing to put up with me, for now at least. It should be only a matter of time that you find yourself another wife,” he said even lower. And still he added, “But I should not address this issue or you will get angry.”

He could be extremely unfair, at times.

“Holmes, are you really sure that you want me to be here?”

“Did I detect a faint warning in that question? Are you finally thinking of moving out?” his voice was heavy with unconcealed suspicion.

“I meant in the bathroom, Holmes, the bathroom.” I stayed calm, as I knew he was not quite himself in those moments. However, I suspected that there was, deeply buried between layers of aloofness and denial, a latent resentment towards me because of my marriage. Also, I found it particularly telling that he did not seem to be in the slightest bit remorseful at all after his long years of silence following his disappearance at the Reichenbach Falls. Had I not known better, I would have blamed his masterful and controlling nature, of which I have provided uncountable examples, for his remarkable lack of friends. Almost fifteen years had elapsed since our first meeting, and Sherlock Holmes remained as self-centred as he had always been.

“I thought I had already told you that I wished you to stay keeping me company.” His thin and nervous fingers were fidgeting with the sponge.

“Well, but I’m not having an argument,” said I, in my hardest tone.

“You are upset.” His head was bent so that his wet black hair kept hidden most of his face.

“Yes,” said I, sternly. Then again, I could not help but feel intrigued by the fears which surely laid behind that absurd question. “Holmes, would you mind telling me what on heavens is it with you today?” I asked, my tone conciliatory.

“Of course, why not?” he cried, raising his head and leaning on the tub in the same pose of conceited complacency I had observed in him a thousand times in front of illustrious clients or members of the police. “You, my dear friend, have been weighing up the idea of leaving Baker Street. You have been thinking about it all day.” And then he added, petulantly, “You seem to forget that I can read you like a book.”

I realised that my mouth had dropped open. I shut it and inhaled deeply, deciding whether it was better to laugh it off or get truly offended for his lack of confidence in my friendship.

“You are right.” I made a pause. “I have been thinking about making a trip.”

“Ha!” He started and splashed some water.

“Yes. A short trip with you.” He looked at me visibly startled. “I was thinking of taking you out of London. I have been trying to remember the name of a little villa my colleague talked me about last week. As much as I often express my deepest admiration for your abilities, Holmes, I must now confess that this is not the way I wanted you to find it out.” He had gradually changed his face into the most pained expression I had ever seen on him.

“You must forgive me, my dear Watson,” he whispered, letting the sponge drop on the water surface. He inhaled soundly and then sighed, looking half ashamed, half irritated.

“You should get out of the tub or you will get cold again,” I admonished him.

“Yes, the water is freezing.”

“Wait a second. I shall fetch you a towel.”

*

“Is that a telegram?” I asked, pointing at the piece of paper he had between his fingers.

“And a most welcome one!” He answered in the strident tone he used when he was in high spirits. Then he raised his head with a bright smile. “A telegram from Lestrade, who requires our presence! Immediately!” He entered his bedroom and began to dress humming cheerfully.

“Holmes, if you don’t mind my asking, are you sure that this is what you need at this moment? A case?”

“Of course I do not mind, my dear fellow. Although I would advice you not to speak of what you ignore.”

“I think I should know a patient’s condition when it is so blatantly obvious,” I argued.

“Obvious! That’s a good word! Pray excuse my being so honest, Watson, but observation is not one of your talents.”

“Holmes…”

“Pray take your coat, it’s a cold night.”

“I believe I shall not.” He paused and stared at me puzzled. “I believe I shall stay at home to-night.” For further credibility, I took the paper and sat in front of the fire. “Be careful.” He gave a glance at my leg, looking a bit confused but deciding to put the matter to rest.

“Very well.” It was all he said before crossing the door and stepping down the stairs.

*

The second I heard the front door closing after him I threw the paper away and hid my face behind my hands for a moment. There were few the times I let my temper get the best of me, and I always repented afterwards. Holmes was not a well man and it had been a mistake to let him go without me.

Yet it was equally true that he was the most selfish person of my past and present acquaintances and that I often felt as his violin or one of his pipes would have felt if they had the sense and the opportunity: used and discarded at his will. He wanted to have me at his disposal without any consideration for my opinion. I was a habit, almost a possession. He did not expect his violin to run away from him but he could not expect the same from me. He knew it and he did not like it. That was all.

*

It was half past eleven when he finally got home from his excursion. He found me nestled in my arm-chair in front of the fire, where I had remained since he left. His expression was cautious when he addressed me.

“How’s your leg?”

“Not much better I’m afraid, but thank you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And Lestrade’s business?”

“Oh, well,” he said, looking pleased by my interest. “It’s nothing extraordinaire, but it possesses some peculiarities. Or maybe it is that I cannot afford to be too picky these days, who knows!” He lit his pipe with a small coal of the fire. “Maybe if I had other matters in hand I would not even bother with it. But you do not look well, my old fellow. I think it’s past time for you to retire.”

“Are you going to bed, Holmes?”

“No, I shall be smoking for a while.” I looked at him reprovingly. “Watson, do not worry so much all the time. I assure you I feel quite well.”

“I can see that,” I retorted, not without a hint of sarcasm. I got up and went to the door before turning to him again, “Call me if you need anything.” But my friend did not answer, sunk as he already was in deep thoughts.

I went to my room and tried to put myself to sleep, although my preoccupied mind would not let me rest. I heard him pacing up and down for a good part of the night.

*

“Mr. Holmes was up and out very early this morning, sir. He took some coffee but nothing else. I’m seriously worried about his health, doctor. He looked very pale and you know how he has been until just yesterday.”

“We both know how he is, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll do what I can and it won’t be much, I’m afraid.”

“You must speak with him, doctor, he will listen to you.” He would not hear a word from me. Not about his health and certainly not from me, but Mrs. Hudson needed reassurance and, as always, I was happy to oblige.

*

Eight hours later Sherlock Holmes was back at Baker Street, all weary satisfaction and looking just on the verge of collapse. I hurried to his side because I was afraid he could not reach his arm-chair, but he refused my help rather unceremoniously.

“Oh, do not fuss, Watson, please,” he asked.

“I’m not fussing! Look at yourself, man! What the deuce have you been doing, Holmes?”

“You would know if you had come with me. I confess I could have done with another pair of eyes. Or fists, for that matter, but all is well that ends well, is it not?” He asked, resting his head languidly on the back of his arm-chair. “At least the look upon Lestrade’s face was well worth it.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Holmes, are you wounded?” I run to him, but he stopped me with a sharp look.

“Do not stress yourself, doctor. If I had required medical attention I would have turned to a detached professional.” That remark felt like a blow. He seemed to deduce by my expression that he had touched a nerve, because he added quickly, “I did not mean to insult your abilities, my dear friend, it is only that you tend to worry a trifle too much where my health is concerned.”

Well, I have myself for a patient man. A very patient man. Otherwise I could have not shared my life for a good number of years with one of the most Bohemian of men. But that what I was witnessing was the slow and inevitable destruction of a great mind, a still young man and, most importantly, my friend. His nerves were shattered, as a result of months of overwork and tension, and his periods of depression were as black as ever. He did not give himself time enough to recover, so every new case left him even weaker. And I had to suffer it all in silence, for my friend’s masterful manners did not let me so much as utter a word.

“Oh, Watson, please, do not make that face! I’m merely stating that your feelings of guilt might be clouding your good reasoning.” For someone who claimed not to be an expert on emotions, he sometimes could read mine as is they were printed upon my face.

“It is not my good reasoning which is at stake here, Holmes and no matter how much you do divert the issue. You must acknowledge that you have limits and let your body rest and recover in a natural fashion. Sometimes I think you do not value your life in the least and that is… painful for me, as your doctor and as your friend.”

“You surely understand that I cannot change my nature for you.”

“Morphine is part of your nature? Cocaine is part of your nature, Holmes? Straining yourself to exhaustion is part of your nature?”

“Cocaine assists me to withstand routine! My brain needs activity, problems, puzzles. I know you mean well, Watson, but you are a physician and my body is your only preoccupation, whilst to me, my body is the last thing to consider. My body is only a tool!”

“But Holmes, has ever occurred to you that you are indeed human? You speak of your body as if your brain were a separate entity! For God’s sake Holmes, you are on the verge of an absolute breakdown! How on earth can you not see that?” I spoke with such vehemence that my friend just stared at me for a few seconds, amused incredulity upon his face.

“Is that your expert opinion, doctor?” He asked, almost mockingly.

“I think I have had enough for to-day,” said I, standing up without looking at him. I directed my steps to the door and then I took the stairs up to my bedroom. I intended to dress, to go to my club and to remain there until I could face him again without feeling exasperated.

I entered my room and began to undress when I heard a knock on my door. Sighing deeply, and wishing from the bottom of my heart to spare us an argument, I opened the door to see Sherlock Holmes standing there, looking at me tiredly and rather sheepishly.

“Are you angry?” he asked. I did not answer. Instead, I moved to the other side of the room, leaving the door open. He took the message, entered and closed the door behind him.

“I see you are angry”

“I’m not going to argue that. You are always right, after all.” I retorted.

“Oh Watson,” he sighed theatrically and sat upon my bed, “I have hurt your pride and I’m terribly sorry, but really, you should rely on me more often! I assure you I have no intention of ending my life so soon.”

“I’m not discussing it further. Do as you please,” said I, and continued putting my shirt on.

“Have you decided our destination already?” This question made me pause for an instant. I noticed that he had seen it yet continued without mentioning it. “We are not departing to-morrow, are we? I think I need a full rest before making any preparations. I would not pick up that jacket, my boy, you look gloomy enough as it is.” I did not dignified that comment with an answer and he began to look impatient “Well, do you intend it to be a surprise?”

“What I intend is to go out right now and have a nice dinner. Preferably in good company.”

“Being sulky does not suit you.”

“Because being insulted suits me better, is that it?”

“You realise you are making too much of a trifle, Watson.”

“Oh, yes, it is just another symptom of male hysteria”

“I never said you were hysterical. Not that I would not recommend you a pelvic massage, though. It is said to work miracles on women.” I stopped dressing and looked at him, shocked.

“That was gross and unworthy of a gentleman like you, Holmes.”

“Do not be so prudish. It’s a common practise in your profession,” he said, irritated. “And I find it highly hypocritical to prescribe it to females and discourage it for males.” He stretched upon my bed with visible gusto.

“Women are more prone to hysteria. Male hysteria is not unheard of, but it is extremely rare.” I remarked.

“Continue your medical preaching and it will cease to be,” he said tiredly and curled up. “Imagine your consulting-room full of male patients waiting for you to give them treatment.” He chuckled softly.

“Health is not a laughable matter.” said I, sternly.

“No, my good doctor, of course not.”

I finished dressing, searched the room for my gloves and went for the door.

“And so dear Watson goes hunting.”

I smelled the venom on that remark and did not answer.

*

Some two hours later I was back at Baker St. The old wound in my leg was making my evening even worse than the foul weather and I had not found suitable company at my club, so I had decided to go back and check on my unwilling patient.

As I did not find him in the sitting-room and the door of his bedroom was still open, I went directly to my bedroom.

He had undressed, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor and put himself under the sheets. I was surprised at first, for he was always extremely careful with his clothing, sometimes even primly so.

I approached him and, even in the dim light, I could see he was somewhat flushed and looking feverish, but deeply asleep. I rested my hand softly on his forehead and this woke him up.

“Watson.” His eyelids were heavy with slumber.

“You have a temperature. Sleep.” Instead, he searched the room with still half-asleep eyes.

“What am I doing in your bed, doctor? Extremis malis extrema remedia, I see.”

“It was you who fell asleep on it. If it’s my bed what is needed for making you rest, then I shall take the settee for a fortnight.”

“Oh, no, no, you will hold me responsible if you hurt your back, my dear friend. Pray take your bed and let me go back to mine.” I pushed him back with my hands.

“By no means. You are going to stay here until I say otherwise.”

“Take my bed then,” he conceded.

“Why, thank you, I should be delighted.” He smiled briefly at that, but still I could sense his reticence.

“How was your dinner?” he asked softly as I tucked him in.

“I dinned at my club alone.”

“I had gathered that much.”

“Lonely, Holmes.” I gave him the truth, for it was that what he was seeking. “It was lonely. And now sleep, there’s a good fellow.”

I went for the door and exited the room.

*

His bedroom was always a mess by our landlady’s standards, but I pitied the poor soul who intended to remedy that.

Once inside, I closed the door realising that I had not brought any night-dress with me, so I decided to borrow one from my friend which, although way too long to my shorter stature, was still a better alternative to sleeping in my undergarments.

His bed was unmade and crinkled but it was all the same to me. Cold linens embraced me and I was soon losing consciousness to the smell of clean clothes and a sweet remembrance of my friend’s cologne.

*

I was roused only two or three hours later by the sound of papers being soundly shuffled in the next room. Terribly clumsy and half-asleep, I got up and went to the sitting-room to find Holmes in one of my night-dresses rummaging through stacks of papers.

“May I ask you what in heaven’s name are you doing at this hour, Holmes?” I asked him, exasperated.

“I should have known! That face was so familiar! It’s somewhere in the middle of this mess.” He waved a hand in one of his characteristic mannerisms. My night-dress, manifestly too short for him, made him look like an overgrown child, together with his tussled hair and his reddish cheeks.

“But it surely can wait until to-morrow, can it not?” I dared to suggest.

“Watson, give me a hand, man!”

“Oh, for the…”

*

“I’m sure that I must be stupid, but I can’t see the urge. The man has already been caught!”

“Once I remembered where I had seen that face, I could not sleep.” He retorted, irritated.

“Perfectly reasonable in your condition,” I remarked, putting him in his bed.

“Are you going back to your room now?” He asked, somewhat mollified.

“And pray tell me what else do you expect me to do? You may have not noticed, but it’s three in the morning!”

“I wonder… would it be too much if I asked you to stay here until I fall asleep? I know I’m not being the most amicable fellow lately, Watson, but if you complied, I should be most grateful.” He eyed me almost shyly, what was, for all its queerness, a good reason to stay per se.

“One of these days I could surprise you and keep saying ‘no’“ said I, through clenched teeth but only half-joking.

“Watson, you are too unselfish for that,” he said, although sounding unconvinced.

“And you take advantage of it.”

“Only when you let me. Oh, please, leave that upon the chair and sit here on the bed. Or better still,” he said, moving to the other side of the bed, “come under the blankets. We shall not let you catch a cold because of me.”

I simply stared at him for a few seconds, truly disconcerted.

“What?” he asked, impatient.

“Nothing. I fancy that, being you, this invitation should not be taken in any other way.”

“And pray tell me, what ‘other way’ would you be referring to?” he asked, frowning. I shook my head as so to clear my mind and entered the bed in one swift movement. Once inside I found that I did not feel any better.

“This is improper, Holmes.” I felt myself blush. “Has that thought not occurred to you?” I was unable to look at him and my cheeks were burning with embarrassment. I felt Holmes tense and heard him say very tersely, “Sometimes you came up with the most preposterous ideas, Watson.” I felt myself blushing even more.

Silence fell over the two of us. Some minutes elapsed and I relaxed a little. Only then my friend spoke again.

“This is nice,” he said, very softly. And I pondered how singular a feeling it could be for a man like Sherlock Holmes just a plain and ordinary human action like that of sharing a bed.

“You do not share your bed often,” I did not ask.

“Only once, that I remember.” It was his prompt reply. “I was seven, I think, and it was out of pure necessity, you see. There were no other bed available in the inn.” He took a brief glance at me. “I considered Mycroft to be very much older than me, then, you know,” he chuckled to himself, “he was so tall and strong. I think I hugged him.”

There was something, deep buried in those few words, which spoke in such volume of innocence and loneliness that wrung my heart.

“Sharing a warm bed is just perfect for cold nights in winter. There’s nothing cosier.” I tried a light tone, although my voice was heavy with emotion.

“You miss it.”

“Not now.”

One could, but only looking very carefully, discover an almost invisible trace of vulnerability under all his masterly manners and selfish requests.

“I never had a younger brother,” said I.

“You are shorter than Mycroft,” said he, turning to me and sliding slowly his arm upon my chest.

“And younger,” I added, passing my arm under his head and hugging him loosely with my right arm. He rested his head very softly upon my shoulder.

“I’m not as soft as a woman,” he whispered.

“No, I could not take you for one.” I chuckled.

“It’s going to be difficult to keep pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“You to be Mycroft and I to be…”

“Let’s not pretend, then,” I interrupted.

“…a woman.”

His chest moved rhythmically and I found its effect very soothing.

“You smell of soap.”

“It’s your soap.” I realised that he might have used it before coming down from my room.

He began to follow imaginary patterns on my borrowed night-dress with his long and nervous fingers.

“I’m very fond of this night-dress. It’s too big for you.”

“I could not go into your bed naked.”

“I also took one of yours.”

“So I noticed.” I had to still his hand with mine. Despite the season, I was starting to feel a little too warm.

“Whatever is the matter?” his whispering voice sounded surprised.

“Nothing is the matter.” said I.

“You tensed all of a sudden.” He spoke a little louder. I disentangled myself from him and he used the opportunity to sit up upon the bed. He shot one of his keen glances at my prone body, and I knew that there was no reason to hide it any longer. “Could it be that you are regretting having come home so early, Watson?”

I covered my eyes with the back my hand for an answer.

“You are hungry. Your flesh is reacting.” Disgust was evident in his voice. I felt mortified.

“Could you be so kind as to let the matter drop, Holmes? Would it be asking too much?” I wished for all that was holy that he did not misinterpret me. “Yours has been the first warm body in years.” It was the truth. I had not shared my wife’s bed in her last months and I had remained celibate since then. “It is a perfectly natural reaction for a healthy man. And I do not see why I should have to explain all this to you.”

“If you find that you need it so much, you should seek professional help.”

“You mean a brothel.”

“Or use your right hand more often. Oh, is it too harsh for your medical ears even in this context? You won’t fall ill if you do, I assure you. But our dear Watson is a too respectable medical man for both solutions. And so, we shall wait until he finds an equally respectable young lady with whom he can have a respectable bedroom life.” His tone was unnecessarily reproachful and full of venom. I could not take it.

“Why, tell me, why do you seem to be so obsessed with my marriage? I fell in love with a lovely lady and I married her. And, after you disappeared from my life for three long years during which my dear wife died, you came back and now I’m here with you! I even sold my practise, Holmes!”

“You deserted me once.” His voice was low.

“I fell in love!”

“Well, I do not wish you to fall in love again!”

“But why? Why is it that you have such determined designs upon my life? This control-obsession of yours is close to insanity!” I asked, desperately. He turned his face to me. His eyes were wild and his expression murderous. In a flash, he grasped my wrists and pinned them above my head on the mattress.

“Are you planning on leaving me again? Answer me!” His whispering voice contrasted with his half-mad expression. The lateness of the hour and the straining of the talk were exhausting my anger.

“Holmes, that was never the question,” said I, whispering too. “I do wish to stay with you,” I assured, feeling almost beaten. “Why do you think I sold my house and my practise? Is it not proof enough for you that I am here, now?”

“You were here before you married,” he said, frowning. “And you are a helpless romantic. Whenever a pretty face is around your reason flies through the window.”

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

“You’ll have to, sooner or later. Let go of my hands, Holmes.” He did it, although reluctantly. Then he fell back on the bed, his breath ragged, betraying his anger.

If I had been to name other reasons for his attitude than his almost sick penchant for domination, I would have found that I had to remain silent. I truly did not understand his motivations. He was always distant and dismissive, so it was certainly not emotional deprivement, nor solitude, what compelled him to keep me by his side.

“You must believe me when I say that I do want to stay here,” I started to speak, some minutes later, when his respiration was back to normal. “Have you not thought that I should be more distrustful than you? You let me believe you were dead for three years. It is you who decides to disappear for days, weeks or months at times.”

“It is not the same. It is always out of necessity, Watson. Never for pleasure,” he said, irritated.

“Your reasons are not the point. You could disappear to-morrow and forever and I would not know where you went to or for what purpose.”

“If I have kept certain information from you it has been only for your own safety. I would not think of jeopardising your life for my work.”

“My good God, Holmes, I think you just do not wish to see it!”

“You are the only friend that I have. I’m not going to lose you,” he said, blind and deaf. All my protestations were in vain.

“Holmes, I could say the very same!”

“Watson, I have nobody else.”

“Oh no, you still have your brother!” To my chagrin, my tone was full of resentment. I had not forgotten that Mycroft had known of his brother’s well-being during the years of his absence.

“Don’t be a fool, Mycroft is exactly like his mother. He does not love me. Never has,” he spat. That made me instantly silent.

For some minutes, there was only a tumult of memories in my mind and the roar of my own blood in my ears. Then came the rage, the bitterness and the desolation. Cold and misery nested in my chest as if a frozen hand had grasped my heart. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply as I digested how desperately lonely and needy was the grown child who was lying next to me.

Behind my eyelids, I could picture him as a sad-eyed, unhappy boy, avid for even mere scraps of affection, turning to take refuge in his books and weird habits, and gradually building the unreachable fortress which surrounded him when we first met. A brain without a heart, indeed! How treacherous, hurtful, how painfully unfair those words had been!

I turned my head to look at my friend’s sharp profile, once more void of expression.

“My dear friend, surely you… you do know that I love you,” I spoke those words out loud and clear, for I did not wish he had any doubts. Holmes’s face flinched, but otherwise remained still. Then, in a soft and broken voice, he said, “I know.” He most probably noticed it, because he took a minute to compose himself again before continuing.

“What I do ignore is what I should do to preserve such a precious treasure.” He looked at me, his expression puzzled. “My dear Watson, I honestly do not know.”

I propped myself up upon one elbow, lifted a hand and gripped his shoulder in what I hoped were a firm and reassuring way. Only hoped, for my old convictions about him were dramatically shattered and my strength gone.

“Try not to concern yourself and just trust me.” I told him, tenderly.

“It’s too difficult and risky.” He frowned, but covered my hand with his.

“Life always is.” I smiled at him. He seemed to doubt for a moment, but then let go of my hand, pulled me down on top of him and hugged me tightly. There were no words then, nor there will ever be, to express the sweet warmness I felt at such rare and sudden fit of affection from my cold and distant companion.

I had ended up with the upper half of my torso over his, so I encircled his arms by his armpits and held his shoulders. I could feel his breath upon my ear, his wiry fingers upon my back and his heated neck upon mine.

“Do not desert me again, Watson.” His skin smelled clean and hot like fresh-ironed sheets mixed with a sweet and familiar bodily scent. It was the sort of smell which never failed to enrapture me and make my chest swell with emotion.

“That sounded like an order.” I squeezed his shoulders soothingly and massaged as much of his back as I could reach, trying to relax him and taking a selfish pleasure in every second of our embrace.

“You know that it was,” he said, almost jokingly.

And we remained entwined in that fashion until I, regrettably, began to feel dizzy and overwhelmed. My hands wandered from his shoulders to the back of his head where his hair was surprisingly cool and soft. I buried my fingers in it, enjoying the silky threads upon my skin.

It was at that point that I became aware that my treacherous body was imposing its needs again, taking advantage of my emotional vulnerability and my tiredness.

“Holmes,” I tried to put my voice under control, but it sounded hoarse none the less. I felt his fingers moving across my back up and down, nervously. He did not answer.

“Holmes,” I repeated.

“Watson,” an almost unknown voice whispered softly to my ear. I felt it upon my skin like a caress, and my body trembled with pleasure in a perfect rapture, exhaling part of my soul at my friend’s nape. Like answering my own, a twin quiver shook the body I had between my arms.

A few seconds of stillness and silence that felt like an eternity prolonged our indulgence in that mad embrace.

Then, his hand squeezed my shoulder very softly and I felt his nose nuzzling the back of my ear. Another wave of pleasure invaded and conquered me through a thousand nerves and pores vibrant with such a gentle touch. I summoned one of my hands to try and reach one of his earlobes, while my nose decided on its own to play with its twin.

“Ah…” and I missed his breathing upon my ear, but felt pleased by his shakiness. I nosed purposefully the junction of his mandibula and his neck while fingering very gently the helix of his ear and then flicking rapidly the lobule with a digit.

“Ahh…” He was moaning soundly and I groaned in return. This seemed to undone him, because he tilted his head and took my earlobe between his lips and tongued it frantically, sucking and licking it with extreme fervour. To witness such ardour and passion upon my friend made me lose any reservations I might have had left. My body was driven mad by arousal and lewdness and, deeper in my mind, by a sudden and arrogant disregard of law, moral, society, its values, its mores, my beliefs, my profession, myself and everything but the needy and wanting body and soul that were trembling beneath me. I decided not to think.

Feeling only his mouth on me, I pressed down upon the mattress trying to relieve the ache between my thighs.

“Watson…, John…,” he whispered hoarsely, letting go of my earlobe. It was my turn to worry his ear with heated laps and its inner channel with the tip of my tongue. “On the top of me, oh Watson…” I obeyed him and placed my whole body over his with only the thin linen of our nightdresses between us. He stiffened and lifted his hips against me, letting me feel his manhood erected and throbbing with lust just as mine was. I pressed down upon him as well.

“Ah, Watson…, ah, feel me, feel me.” He was panting and nearly sobbing, but he was not, by any means, weak or soft like a maiden, for he grasped my hand with a strength that I often forgot he had. I propped myself up on one elbow and pulled up his nightdress hastily until I found the hem and I touched the skin of his knee. Up went my hand, stroking the soft hairs of his thigh with the tips of my fingers in my way to his crotch. With my head hovering over his, even in the poorly lighted room, I could see his expressive face contorted by desire. A fleshy tongue darting between his thin lips to wet them, brows frowned and eyelids heavy and short, panting breaths, disguised him as the very portrait of male debauchery. And that was my long-time friend and companion, the always cold, collected and aloof Sherlock Holmes.

Such a sight did nothing more than increase my lust. I had an instantaneous letch for watching him spend, so I laid hold of his penis and began to feel him.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, in a husky, thick voice. His bawdiness inflamed me. I pulled the foreskin up and down and then the prepuce off and on the fleshy knob until his rod got stiffer. His moaning resounded loudly in the quiet of the night.

“Shhh, they will hear you.”

“To hell with them. Frig me.” It was my turn to moan. Being with him like this, watching him so unashamedly blind with lust, hearing those obscenities out of his pristine mouth made me even more randy. I began to frig him.

“You too, frig me, do me, feel mine too, feel it, …ah, ah.” He lifted my nightdress, took me in his hand and began to mimic my movements. His prick was oozing seminal fluids and the sound of our hands rubbing our cocks was indecently loud.

“Oh, John, ah…, mmn, ah.” He was approaching his crisis and in a sudden movement, he propped himself up and tried to kiss me upon the lips. A strange revulsion came instantly and I averted my face. He let himself fall again upon the bed and increased the pace with his hand. In a few seconds I was spurting my seed, my head hidden in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He spent shortly after me, oddly quiet and still.

*

It must have been five in the morning when I sat in front of the fire I had stoked only minutes before in our sitting-room. Holmes was still in his bedroom, where I had left him silent and perfectly awake.

Before my eyes laid an unknown territory with no visible paths. My physical reaction I could not condemn, for I was a sound man with a healthy appetite which had been ignored for far too long, so I had reacted under its powerful and undeniable influence. I had tried to warn Holmes. Of that I was sure. And he, presumably in a similar or worse condition than me and with considerably less experience, had been unable to stop himself. Those were the facts, cold and succinct. I prayed to God that Holmes could see them in that very fashion.

But, what of our old intimate friendship? What of the loneliness of us both? What of the tenderness we had shared before succumbing to lewd and lascivious carnal pleasures? What of Holmes’s confidence? What of my unquestionable love for him? Why was I feeling so disgusted with myself and so utterly and dreadfully lost?

And there was that one memory which filled me with fear. I had refused his kiss. I shut my eyes with dismay. Even in the middle of our libidinous act, my body had rebelled at the prospect of kissing a man. To fondle him, was one thing, but sharing a loving kiss was, from my point of view, another thing entirely. I fancied that every boarder of my time had had his initiation at the hands of a fellow student as it had been my case. The not-so-secretive places where boys handled and felt each other pricks were as common as lewd talk and circulating pornographic novels. I had enjoyed the feeling of the soft loose skin over the iron-hard rod of my random companion, as well as his face at the moment of spending. There was a time when I had talked bawdy to a mate whilst frigging him to help him to imagine he was with a woman, and I had spent only by looking at him, feeling him and hearing my own words.

It was true that I had not felt another man’s stiff penis in more years than I could count, although it had been a long unfulfilled letch of mine to watch a couple enjoying sex next to me, and to be able to touch them freely everywhere while they were at it. It was only a fantasy and, to be honest, I was not in the least ashamed of it. But no fantasy had ever included kissing a man.

In my experience, kisses meant always love or romance. I had never kissed a prostitute, or a woman with whom I had not been infatuated.

Sherlock Holmes. He was more than dear to me. I could have given my life for him anytime. Even the departure of my dear Mary had not affected me as his fake death had. I had been pathetically aware of my one-sided devotion, loyalty and unconditional love for him. And still, my body did notice a difference. What would have it meant for him my evasion? Would I have hurt him? Was that even possible? Was I giving it too much thought?

Immersed I was into deep thoughts when the object of my pondering went out of his room. He was still wearing my night-dress and over it, his mouse-coloured dressing-gown. He went directly to the pipe rack, took one, filled it, lit it and sat on his arm-chair in front of the fire. He did not look at my direction.

I was afraid of speaking, for I did not know what to say. Then it occurred to me that I could be no wrong if I began apologising.

“Holmes, I…” I faltered, “I do not even know where to begin to apologise properly for what has happened to-night.”

“Do not apologise then,” he said, between clouds of smoke. “I should be apologising to you too, for I do not know what came over me. So it could be better if we forget it all and do not mention it again,” he said, with a cold demeanour.

I did not know what to expect from him, but I did not like that cold dismissal. Furthermore, I did not believe it. I was beginning to see his true self through the small cracks in his facade.

“But I do wish you to know that I maintain every word that I said to you.” I declared. His eyes moved quickly to look at me and a strange expression flickered on his face, but only for a second.

“Thank you,” said he, in a restricted voice. “Your honesty is much appreciated.”

“I love you, my dear chap,” I said in a low voice, as it seemed easier, “and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” He looked visibly moved again and tried to conceal it by getting up and going to the window. I got up too and approached him a little.

“You are not disgusted then?” He asked, whispering.

“Good heavens Holmes, of course I’m not!” I tried to grip his arm, but he avoided it.

“Please, don’t”

“Sorry, I was not going to… I did not…”

“It is all right.”

A minute of strained silence followed.

“You thought I was disgusted because I did not…”

“Watson!”

“But I need to know, let me…”

“There is no need to relive it!” he cried.

“Please, let me finish! Hear what I have to say for once in your life!”

“I don’t know why I should have to endure being humiliated by you!” He shoved me aside and tried to get away but, falling on my knees, I gripped the hem of his dressing-gown.

“Please, Holmes, please,” I begged him.

“Get up! Get up I tell you!” He pulled from my good shoulder forcefully but unsuccessfully.

“I do not wish to humiliate you, don’t you see? I have left everything behind each time you have called me. I have broken the law for a word of appraisal from you. I would withstand torture just to hear you say you care for me.”

He closed his eyes, defeated.

“Oh Watson, what is happening to us?

“You thought I was disgusted because I did not let you kiss me.” He flinched. “I do not know how to explain it. I suppose that my scarce experience with males did not involve kissing. I have only kissed the females I have loved. And it is not that I do not love you, for I do, and you know it. I do not understand it myself. So please, forgive me. Do not push me away.”

“Push you away?” He smiled bitterly. “I would chain you to a wall of this room if I could.” Those words set my heart beating madly. “I have never kissed anyone.” I felt remorseful tears filling my eyes and I could do nothing to stop them.

“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I love you so much, please, forgive me.”

“No, you have done nothing wrong,” said he, in a barely audible voice. “Please, do not weep, I do not know if I can hate myself more than I already do. Get up, come, sit on the settee.”

I obeyed him and sat at his side, while he took a blanket from the back of the settee and covered us both with it.

*

We had remained in silence until I stopped weeping.

“We need to be practical about this,” he said, breaking the silence and sounding almost like the efficient thinker I knew so well.

“Indeed. How?”

“Let’s go to sleep. I’m exhausted. I cannot think clearly.”

“I thought I would never hear those words from you.” I was not teasing him, as I was honestly shocked.

“To-night is full of firsts, it seems.”

I silently nodded.

“We shall rest, and then we shall plan our holidays. I find you need them as much as I do. Maybe even more.”

“I concede that you may be a most tiring patient.”

“I know.”

“I love you all the same.” He blushed and smiled shyly, looking deeply moved. I loved him even more for that.

“My dear friend, I do not deserve you,” he said, his eyes averted and his voice low.

“I'm yours all the same.”

“I’m grateful for that,” he said, standing up and tending me his hand. I took it and he seized me up.

We made our way to the door, where he stopped. I bade him good-night in silence.

*

My bed smelled of him. I slept until midday.

*

A week later, we took a train to the country.

END
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The True Nature of Love