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Case of the Missing Valet	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Crossover Views: 1792 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Jeeves and Wooster or Sherlock Holmes series. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 3

Since time began, various philosopher and writer and poet chappies have contemplated the mysteries of love, and since time began, not a dashed one of them has been able to come up with any answers. I had never really thought about falling in love; even when I thought I’d been in the middle of it, I always turned out to be mistaken, and I was invariably much relieved when it was over.

You see, I really hadn’t ever been in love before. Now I knew that love had nothing to do with springtime and sunshine and birds tweeting and all that rot I’d spouted on about before. Love had to do with knowing a person, knowing him well, and still wanting to spend the rest of your life with him.

Now this is all very well and good, but as we stepped into the adjoining room, I realized that I had several dozen pointed questions to ask, but it did seem somewhat gauche to start a lovers’ quarrel before we’d even become lovers.

My gentleman’s gentleman eyed me with the most sheepish expression I have seen upon his face since that rainy night when his plotting resulted in an eighteen-mile bike ride for yours truly. “First,” he said quietly, “I must apologize to you for being less than honest. I promise you, sir, that from henceforth, I shall answer all your questions truthfully.” He turned to retrieve his already packed bags from beside the bed.

“Where are we going?” I asked. This love thing had my head spinning.

“Home, sir. That is, if you do not wish to accept my foolish and ill-advised resignation.”

“I don’t think there is anything you could do that would be foolish, Jeeves,” said I, smiling. But still, something was not quite right, some ill-placed tone sounded wrong in the Wooster heart.

“Is there something wrong, sir?”

And there it was. “Yes, indeed. Now, you know I wouldn’t want to start – oh, dash it all, it’s just not right for you to call me ‘sir,’ not if we’re going to be …” I looked at him for help, and found him smiling indulgently at me. “And what should I call you, anyway? I’m not sure I could get used to calling you ‘Jack.’” I finished doubtfully.

The smile widened. “You may continue to call me Jeeves, if you wish,” he said softly, and I felt as breathless as Bingo as those eyes of his seemed to draw me in. “And although we must maintain the proper decorum when we are in company, if you would grant the liberty, I should dearly like to address you as ‘Bertram’ from time to time.”

Now I knew I was in love; no one had ever caused such a flutter in my chest just by saying my name before. I found I could not speak, and so I nodded as I stepped closer to him, lifting my face to his.

To my astonishment, he stepped away, but stilled my protest with a placating gesture. “As much as I should dearly love to drink from the fountain of your lips, my dearest Bertram, I do not think I could keep sufficient control of myself once I started, and I do not wish to lose control in such close proximity to the place where my fathers are currently arguing about your suitability as my mate.”

I blinked. He had lost me at the bit about drinking from the fountain of my lips, and it took me a few seconds to catch up. The bit with his fathers arguing about my suitability as a mate somehow reassured me; if there were irate parents who questioned my courtship of their offspring, then at least I was on some familiar ground.

“Well, by all means, let us speed homeward,” I said, taking a deep breath.

It was a simple enough matter to chat amicably in the lift about the weather and such, and relatively easy to wait patiently while Jeeves arranged for the return of his luggage to our flat, but by the time we were ensconced in the taxi, I found I could not keep myself from goggling at my man in sheer amazement, the very idea of what was going to happen once we were alone tearing all rational thought from my brain. Fortunately, Jeeves was able to steer me away from indiscretion with practiced ease.

“Every time I ride in a taxi,” he said, “I am reminded of how my mother always said that taxicabs were the gondolas of London. Of course, she was quoting Prime Minister Disraeli at the time –”

“Hold on a moment,” I said. “Not to be indelicate, but Dr. Watson has told me that your mother …” I paused, suddenly aware that the back of a cab might not be the place to discuss a fellow’s dead mother. Jeeves, however, seemed relatively unconcerned, and merely nodded with the hint of a smile.

“Of course, the good doctor is referring to my birth-mother, who, I am told, was a good and patient woman of high intellect and gentle wisdom. The woman to whom I usually refer when speaking of my mother, however, is one Mrs. Cecil Forrester, former employer of my birth-mother, who had the raising of me during my formative years. Although I was told the circumstances of my birth as soon as I was old enough to understand them, it was made clear to me that my foster-family had taken me in as one of their own. They provided me with love, support, and the extended family of aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews of which I have spoken before.”

“I thought you were raised by –” I stopped, suddenly conscious of the taxi-driver.

“Upon the death of my birth-mother, her husband found himself unequal to the task of caring for an infant,” Jeeves said smoothly, “but although I lived with the Forresters until I was old enough to be sent to school, my father did visit me frequently, providing me with all the financial and emotional support I needed throughout my childhood. But here we are, sir,” he added, as the cab came to a halt. We clambered out in silence, and I smiled as I watched Jeeves pay off the man, leaning over with his back to me.

Suddenly, the word “aroused” popped back into the Wooster noggin, and I had to think of Aunt Agatha for a moment in order to prevent the word from becoming a physical reality, as it were.

This lift ride was about as comfortable as a house-party with Honoria Glossop, Madeline Basset, and Stiffy Byng all in attendance; the lift attendant’s presence definitely put a damper on what I would most like to do. I wasn’t sure at this point exactly what I would most like to do, what with my head swimming from my churning emotions and whatnot, but Jeeves’ suggestion along the lines of drinking from the fountain of my lips sounded like a jolly good time.

Once we got into our flat with the door shut safely behind us, however, all desire, thoughts of desire, or even any thought whatsoever vanished without a trace, and Jeeves and I stood dumbly in the foyer, neither one of us sure what we should do.

Of course, Jeeves was able to recover from this state much more quickly, and quietly bustled about for a moment, taking our coats and hats and putting them back in the hall closet as I wandered over to the sofa and flopped down upon it. Jeeves shimmered over to my side and gazed down thoughtfully at the detritus of last night’s vigil, frowning at the cigarette butts and discarded glasses as if they troubled him deeply.

When he moved to clean the mess up, however, I stilled him with a hand upon his arm. “You shouldn’t have to do that,” I protested feebly.

Jeeves drew himself up to his full height. Now, I’m one of the taller chaps at the Drones, not a tiny thing like Barmy Phipps, or a little bulldog like Tuppy Glossop. My man Jeeves, however, towers a full head above me, as well as being broad in the shoulders and sturdily built all round. I did not until that moment realize what a large man he is, and what an imposing figure he can be if he chooses.

“I am still your valet,” he said quietly, “and it is my duty to –”

“Oh, can’t we lay off being valet and master for a while?” I asked, looking up at the man who loomed over me. “I mean, if you –” I paused, uncertainty rearing up in the Wooster heart. For the first time I can remember, I could not think what to say.

I swallowed hard, staring blankly at this man who had become the centre of my life, the definition of my home. When I did speak, even I was surprised by what I said.

“Jeeves, why the bloody hell are you standing there looking like you’ve burnt the toast, instead of sitting here drinking from the fountain of my lips?”

Still the man did not move.

My heart began to feel like the morning after a bender, with Aunt Agatha pounding at the door. “Jeeves,” I whispered, “please.”

Jeeves took a deep breath. You would have had to know him pretty well at this point to see the pain in his eyes. “I do not wish to imply that you would ever act less than honourably, sir –”

“I should bally well hope not! And can you leave off with the ‘sir?’” I added gently. “I mean, after all, if we’re going to practice this homosexuality thing, we might as well start on an equal footing.”

A ghost of a smile quirked one corner of his mouth upwards. “I must plead force of habit,” he said quietly, and shimmered over to the drinks cabinet. “Very well then, Bertram, for tonight, we are not valet and master, but simply two gentlemen having an evening drink together.” He pulled out various bottles and began working his alchemy.

“I say, you’re using some of the strong stuff.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to need it, si—Bertram,” he said, and for the first time ever, I thought I could detect a tremor in the man’s voice. “You see, I’m afraid the situation is more complicated than you think. In fact, I find myself distinctly torn.” He poured two glasses of something potent and whisked over to the sofa. He sat down gingerly on the cushions, carefully handing me a glass.

“Torn?” I echoed. I couldn’t be sure I’d heard him correctly; I kept looking at his lips and thinking that soon they would be touching mine. The idea made shivers of pleasure ripple down my spine in a way I had only hitherto experienced when tasting Anatole’s faisan bourré du chou-fleur sur un lit des truffes.

“Torn, sir,” he replied gravely. “I have to tell you something that may anger you, even to the point of ordering me from your presence. Part of me wishes to tell you now, so that you know all, and part of me wishes, as wrong as it would be, to have the pleasures of this night first –”

I have learned that Jeeves is always right when it comes to his judgement, but I’m not a chap to let judgement stand in the way of having the full, robust life. I decided to damn the consequences and leaned in and kissed him. Or, at least, I tried to. Once again, the man dodged the Wooster lips in quite a disconcerting manner. He laid his hand upon my chest and gently pushed me back to my starting point.

“Please,” he said lugubriously. “I need you tell you first. Then you can decide whether you wish to –”

“Blast it, Jeeves, I love you. I don’t think anything you could tell me would make that change.”

Jeeves bowed his head. “As gratifying as it is to hear you say that, I must make a clean breast of this, if only to clear my conscience.”

That certainly put a different spin on things. “Far be it for me to deny a man a good conscience-clearing, Jeeves. Confess away, if you must.”

Jeeves took a long, slow sip of his drink, staring off into the distance for a long time. “If you went to the Hall of Records to-morrow,” he said eventually, “you would find that Reginald Abraham Jeeves and John Sherlock Watson have one important thing in common; they are both dead.”

“You’re looking awfully well for a dead man, Jeeves.”

“I was believed dead,” he said slowly, “because the doctor who delivered me would not let anyone else near me or my mother for over twelve hours. When he sent the nurse away, the doctor was half-crazed with grief, my mother was dead, and I was stillborn. When they finally were able to break into the room, the doctor was nearly dead, my mother was stone-cold, and I was alive, kept warm and safe in the doctor’s arms.”

I gulped down my drink. “Sweet Lord above, Jeeves. I’m sorry; I never knew.”

He managed a rueful smile. “It is not a thing that comes up in casual conversation.”

“So who was the doctor? Why did he do such a mad thing as to lock you all away together? Why was he nearly dead?”

“His name was Doctor John H. Watson,” Jeeves answered softly. “I think that answers your other two questions.”

I shook my head, not sure that it did answer my questions, but sure that I didn’t want to press further. “I don’t understand,” I said numbly, “why you should think that any of this would make me angry, Jeeves.”

“Unfortunately, I am merely filling in the background so that you may understand how I have inveigled my way into your household under false pretences. You see, once Papa John recovered from his … incident, my Uncle Mycroft had decided that it might be useful to have a nephew that did not legally exist.”

“What do you mean, you don’t legally exist? And what was this uncle of yours playing at? Doesn’t he work for the Government?”

“Uncle Mycroft passed away some ten years ago, but yes, he did work for the Government, and so do I. To this day, my father and I are employed in His Majesty’s Secret Service.”

“I say! That’s a rather odd thing. Conscripted at birth, what?”

“I look upon it as a sacred duty, to my family and my country.”

“Bally decent of you. So that’s what Mr. Holmes meant when he said I couldn’t reveal your identity, then?”

“I am afraid I must swear you to secrecy, Bertram.”

“Consider me sworn, old fellow, consider me sworn. But I still don’t get the anger bit. Why am I supposed to be cheesed at you?”

“Certainly you must realize that in my rôle as valet to various members of the noblesse, including yourself, I have been able to gain unique intelligence, as well as exert some discreet influence. I have, in essence, used you and your social connections to further my various missions.”

I looked at the man’s lips and wondered what he tasted like. “I have only one question. Now mind you, I already know the answer,” I said, “but I know you, Jeeves, and I know you’re not going to kiss me until we’ve got this straight between us, and I desperately want to kiss you.”

His lips parted slightly. “Yes?”

“At the end of the day, does it serve His Majesty?”

Jeeves held up his head and looked me straight in the eye. “His Majesty has been gracious enough to express his thanks to me personally, upon the third occasion of my father refusing a knighthood.”

Desperation to start kissing or no, I couldn’t let that pass. “Your father’s refused the Lists three times? And His Majesty still granted him an audience?”

“His Majesty had, in fact, summoned my father to his presence in order to convince him to accept.”

“And he still refused! No offence, Jeeves, but your father’s made of stern stuff.”

“No offence taken; I have often thought the same thing myself, particularly during my adolescent years. In any case, I do not recall my father’s exact phrasing when refusing His Majesty’s offer, but the general gist was that he would only accept such a title posthumously.”

“In other words, over his dead body.”

“Indeed, si—Bertram.” His face broke into an honest-to-goodness smile, and he reached over and touched my cheek, sending another faisan bourré shiver down my spine. He leaned in to me, and I closed my eyes expectantly, lifting my face into his caress.

Instead of his lips upon mine, I felt the soft touch of his hand cupping my chin, his thumb stroking tantalizingly close to my mouth.

My eyes flew open. “Jeeves, you’re toying with me.”

“I am savouring the moment,” he murmured. “And I also have a question for you, Bertram. It is rather a personal one, I am afraid.”

I leaned forward to meet his lips, but he drew back, and I frowned sharply at him. “I do not wish to sound peevish, but I assume that at some point you are going to finish savouring the moment and kiss me. Under the circumstances, I think you might be able to ask me anything.”

“I beg your forgiveness for my delay, but I wished to be clear upon a few points, and I do not think I would be able to slow down enough to ask the more important questions once we began.” His voice dropped to a low purr, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle as his thumb brushed across my lips. “You mentioned some early experimentation,” he asked quietly, “but how much experience do you have with physical pleasure, with either gender?”

“Well, I’ve kissed a few girls, just short pecks, nothing involved,” I said, blushing furiously. “And Bingo let me kiss him once, and we would pull each other’s … well, we’d take each other in hand, you know. But that’s all, aside from my own solitary indulgence,” I admitted, looking down.

“And do you know what men do with each other?” he asked, his face growing maddeningly close once more, this time so close that I could feel his breath upon my mouth.

I nodded, licking my lips. “I saw some pictures once, when I was at Cambridge. One of the fellows was showing them around. Everyone was saying how disgusting the photogs were, but I thought it looked no different from the ones I’d seen of men with women, just a different brand of the same thing, what? I knew enough not to say so, though.” I looked up into his eyes. “I want you to do all of it to me. Everything, even that bit where I bend over and –”

His thumb traced the contours of my lips. “Do you trust me?” he whispered.

“With my life,” I answered.

“Very good, sir,” he murmured, and drew me into his arms. When our mouths met, every nerve in my body exploded into the type of shivers that left faisan bourré in the dust.
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Case of the Missing Valet