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“Dorset. Hmm.”
Holmes paced the sitting room, letter tapping against his chin, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow. I picked up the discarded, matching envelope and examined it closely, following Holmes’s example of observations and deductions. Thick, cream paper with a return name and address discreetly printed on the top left corner. On the back, a navy blue wax seal carrying the imprint of some mythical sea creature. A siren, I thought. Certainly there was something enticing about the letter.
I agreed with Holmes’s conclusion that the sender was a single gentleman of some means and land to accompany his title. That the letter came from a countryside estate and not from a genteel London apartment or fashionable hotel suggested that this Lord Osmington was not a politician, for the newspapers were full of reports of the debates occurring in the Palace of Westminster. That he had remained away from his hereditary seat on the red leather of the upper house indicated that he had no interest in voting on any of the issues of the day.
Not that Holmes would have kept up with those either: his interest in politics and politicians extended only as far as their existence occasionally intersected his because of his work. Had this particular peer not had reason to petition for Holmes’s expertise, I am sure Holmes would have remained happily unaware of him.
Holmes continued to frown, tap and pace, but I could not keep the joy from my demeanour.
“Dorset! In June! Holmes, it will be glorious.”
His frown softened and he regarded me with a slight smile and a cocked eyebrow. I put as much entreaty into my expression as I dared.
”We could both go. I’ll assist while you solve the case, and we could spend a couple of days at the seaside afterwards. Lulworth is a particularly pleasing destination, I have heard. Or Lyme Regis. We could swim in the sea.” A thought struck me and I shot him an uncertain look. “You can swim, can’t you?”
I saw his mind made up in the set of his features. “We shall go to Dorset,” he said in a decisive tone. “His letter has piqued my interest and I will always seek to bring blackmailers to justice. Ugh, they are leeches on a society that would rather see a life ruined than a small transgression overlooked.”
”I beg to disagree, my dear Holmes,” I said, shaking my head slowly at his raised eyebrows. “If you consult my medical journals you will see that leeches, however outdated, still have some legitimate clinical uses.” I felt anger welling up at a memory. “Blackmailers should simply be shot.”
He looked at me strangely and I wondered if I had revealed too much by my vehemence. “In the army, I knew a good man whose life was ruined by a blackmailer. He would have been a fine surgeon, and his unnecessary death was a great loss to the country, not just his family.”
I shook myself out of the dark mood that threatened to spoil my delight at going on holiday with Holmes. I grinned at him again, a little forced. “Do you possess a bathing costume? I could purchase one for you when I get one for myself.”
He grinned back and our morning was light again.
“I would prefer not to swim, but I confess I will be quite entertained enough by the vision of you in a bathing costume.”
He winked at me and the sight of such a mischievous expression on his serious face was so incongruous that I laughed aloud. I believe I turned quite pink.
Had I a little more confidence that his gentle ribbing might indicate something deeper within our friendship, I would have replied in kind. But the thought that my dear friend might be indulging in flirtatious comments rendered me quite tongue-tied.
I began compiling a mental list of what I would need to put in order before the trip. Besides a bathing costume I would purchase a new linen shirt as my finest summer shirt had grown threadbare at the elbows. Somewhere in my trunk a battered hat box containing a straw hat had been unceremoniously thrust beneath an old ill-fitting suit. I imagined Holmes on the beach with his shirtsleeves rolled up– his one concession to the heat– and the wind in his hair. The stirring image put a spring in my step as I bounded upstairs to my bedroom.
After a quick look in my wardrobe and in my trunk, I called to Holmes that I was going out. By the time I returned with my purchases, Holmes had consulted Bradshaw and our train journey was planned. The very next morning, I boarded a train with Holmes, my head filled with thoughts of long coastal walks, warm sunshine and fresh seaside air.
Lord Osmington’s address, when we reached it after two trains and a bumpy carriage ride, was the most delightful country house I had ever seen. It was solidly constructed from pale limestone, had a ground floor and upper floor with pleasingly proportioned shutters, and a row of three attic windows jutting out from the thatched roof. But it was the kind of property I associated with well-to-do country squires, not the landed gentry. The house faced the sea and I imagined the joy of waking up every morning to the sight and sound of the waves crashing against the breakwater that protected a small crescent of sand.
“Lord Osmington, I presume.”
Holmes stepped out of the carriage and nodded to our host and client. I accepted a handshake when Holmes introduced me as my intimate friend and associate, Dr Warson. I may have imagined it, but Lord Osmington’s eyebrow quirked at that description of my relationship to the detective he had engaged.
Osmington smiled nervously at us both. ”Come in. I will show you your room and then there will be some refreshments.”
We followed him inside while his coachman brought our bags. Our host led us upstairs to a generously proportioned room with a large bed and a window that looked out over the cove.
“I hope you will not mind the room. There is another guest room. I could rouse the maid and have it prepared if you object to sharing.”
“Do not go to any trouble,” Holmes said without a pause. “This room will accommodate us quite well. Watson?”
I could barely drag my eyes away from the view. ”Oh! Yes, yes indeed. What a lovely place you have!”
”It is, rather. I live quietly here. The actual family pile is some miles inland. My elder sister and her family have the run of it.” He sighed and gave a little shudder. “She has five children all under twelve years old. Well. Come downstairs when you are ready. There is no need to dress for dinner tonight. We stand on little ceremony here, so I hope you will not be too shocked by my country habits.”
Holmes waited until the door closed, then joined me at the window. The light was fading and I anticipated a long summer twilight.
“I would very much like to go for a walk right this minute.”
Holmes huffed a laugh. He stood so close to my back that I felt it as much as heard it.
“Before dinner? Tomorrow we will find reason to walk. What do you make of him?”
I thought for a moment. “Younger than I expected. Not particularly fond of his family. Doesn’t employ a large staff, so perhaps not as well off as others of his standing. Perhaps that is why he does not reside at the family estate. Friction between him and his sister over financial matters? I think he’s younger by several years, so although he inherited everything perhaps he won’t challenge her.”
”Well done, Watson.” I saw Holmes’s smile in his reflection in the window glass. “I think he has his coachman, whom we have met, probably a manservant, the maid he mentioned, and a cook. However, you are wrong about his wealth. I believe the limits on this household are self-imposed. And you are mistaken about the sister. If he does not hold some fondness for her, why has he not removed her and her noisy brood from his property?”
I rather liked the thought of a quiet country retreat. “Then our host likes living here. Had I the money,” I said with a smile to match Holmes’s. “A little cottage by the sea would be my idea of heaven.”
He looked my reflection in the eye for a few seconds, then clasped my shoulders gently from behind.
“Let’s go downstairs and see what we can do for Lord Osmington.”
The dining room, though modest in size, radiated a refined opulence that I had never seen in a household without a lady present. The table and chairs, carved with a leaf and vine motif, matched a sideboard with delicate shelves for curios. A small stone fireplace at one end with a mirrored panel above it lent warmth and light to the space. Here was a room where cosy conversation could flourish. I usually found such luxurious spaces impressive but not particularly inviting. Here was a house one could feel at home in.
Despite Lord Osmington’s invitation to casual attire, I did not feel comfortable going to dinner in our travelling clothes until he sat down with us in a fine silk smoking jacket. A splendid meal of mackerel with gooseberry sauce, roast pheasant, and stewed courgettes and onions followed. I asked politely about the history of the house which Lord Osmington was equally polite–if not particularly interested– in offering. He perked up considerably when Holmes asked him about the pair of colourful vases on the side board.
“Dresden porcelain,” he admitted proudly, “brought back from a trip to the continent. I am not a collector but they were too beautiful to leave behind.”
“You have a keen eye for beauty,” Holmes said, refusing a dish of fresh strawberries and cream with a wave of his hand.
“I believe I have a shrewd sense of value. How unfortunate for me that I am not equally observant when it comes to scandal.”
Holmes nodded. “Many blackmailers count on blindsiding their targets. The more trusting one is, the more devastating the blow. But you have done right in calling for me immediately.”
“I’m at my wits end, Mr. Holmes, I fear I may have to give into these demands if you cannot find a solution.”
“Now that,” Holmes said with a wave of his finger, “you must not do. There is no end to blackmail, only a costly reprieve until the villain decides that the first sum was insufficient.”
Lord Osmington pushed his berries around with a fork, frowning. “But if it’s possible that the amount will satisfy–”
“I beg you to put the very thought from your mind. We are not giving up and neither will you.”
I felt a thrill run through me at the resolve in his voice. Had I been in Lord Osmington’s place those words alone would have lifted a weight off my shoulder.
After all the dishes were cleared away by the manservant, we sat back with our glasses of port and lit cigarettes. Holmes took a deep inhale and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.
“Now.” He fixed Osmington with a steady gaze. “Is it possible that you might reveal the nature of the threat against you? Confidentially, of course. You may be reassured that nothing you tell us will ever leave this room.”
Osmington looked away. “It concerns some letters that I wrote a few years ago, before I moved here.”
“Letters?” I frowned. “Of an indiscreet nature?”
He regarded me with a wry expression and nodded. “Indeed. I expressed my affections freely back then. You must understand: I was barely twenty-one and knew nothing of the world.”
Osmington resumed his study of the fireplace. Holmes and I smoked in silence for a minute.
I cleared my throat. ”Is it that your paramour seeks compensation for promises made, or for the loss of your affection?” Osmington shook his head. “Have your letters fallen into the wrong hands?”
He darted a look at me then.
Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes. “If only every writing pad, pen and ink bottle came with a stark warning attached.” He tilted his head and caught Osmington’s eyes. “I ask you to be completely honest with me, Lord Osmington. I must have the facts.”
“When I returned from my Grand Tour, I wrote—and received replies to—several letters to someone I met in Vienna. I invited this person to move here. To be with me.”
I could see Holmes’s expression grow impatient. I leaned forward, hoping to draw the truth from Osmington before Holmes became snappish. “And did this person come to England?”
”Yes.”
”And is she still here? Are you still in love with her? Is this case centred upon a clandestine marriage?”
Holmes gave me one of his slightly amused looks. Osmington got up and paced the room. Eventually, he rang the bell and I assumed our evening was over.
“Yes, Lord Osmington?”
Osmington looked nervously at his manservant. “Are we still in agreement about this matter, Emil?”
”We are.”
I looked from Osmington to his manservant and back again, and the nature of the problem dawned on me. Osmington turned to face us and took Emil’s hand between his own.
”Whoever has these letters knows why I asked my dear friend, Emil Brandmeier, to move to England, live in my house and act as if he were my manservant. And they consider it inappropriate for someone of my nature to hold lands and a title. If I do not pay… The consequences do not bear thinking about.”
”Sir, they will not be content until they have stripped you of everything,” Holmes said flatly. “This demand is merely the beginning—a test of your willingness to capitulate. You must allow me to investigate fully and do not act without consulting me first. Now. Will both of you be so good as to sit down and tell me the entire story? Omit nothing.”
The two men sat and Holmes listened while, with permission, I took notes. Holmes interrupted only twice: once to ask about the reaction of Osmington’s family to his sudden decision upon his return from the continent to live in what counted (for such people) as seclusion, and once for clarification of the precise details of the Osmington line of succession.
“I will have answers for you in due course,” Holmes said reassuringly when he had heard all the available facts. “I will sleep on it tonight and begin my investigations tomorrow.”
I followed Holmes up to our room, leaving Osmington and Brandmeier in the dining room, their hands tightly clasped across the curve of the mahogany table.
”What do you propose to do?” I asked, expecting Holmes to rattle off a list of people he would wish to interview.
Instead he gave me a faint smile and spoke quietly. “I have solved this case already, my dear boy. I know who the blackmailer is, but bringing him into the open will be tricky. Come on, you know my methods. From the data you have already, what would your conclusion be?”
I echoed Holmes’s subdued tone. ”The blackmailer wants money immediately, but eventually for this young man to relinquish his inheritance. Therefore, the blackmailer is someone who stands to gain from this outcome. Now, if Osmington were to die without producing an heir—”
”As seems likely.”
”—as seems likely, then, since he has no brother, the estate would pass to the oldest son of his elder sister.” I frowned. “But the boy is ten years old. I doubt that he… Oh!”
Holmes’s face lit up as he saw understanding dawn on my features for the second time that evening.
“The boy’s parents! They would hold the estate in trust until he came of age. The boy would get the title, but they would have control of all the money for the next eleven years! We must determine whether it is the boy’s father or mother or both who are to blame for this.”
”Hah! Always follow the money. Well done, Watson! You have impressed me so much with your reasoning that I could kiss you on the cheek.”
I laughed. Emboldened, perhaps, by the relaxed atmosphere of this country manor and the generous glasses of wine and port our host had poured for us, I replied with a grin, “You could kiss me anywhere you please, my dear.”
Holmes glanced up with wide eyes and a trace of a smile on his lips before he schooled his countenance again.
“Well, I… nothing to celebrate just yet.” He glanced down as though suddenly bashful and I rushed to fill the silence.
“It is an unusual relationship Lord Osmington finds himself in– the, erm, the social roles that he and his servant are expected to play, of course.”
“Of course,” Holmes echoed. He’d returned to the faraway gaze I associated with serious deliberation. “I’d be hard-pressed to say what this repugnant individual blackmailing him finds more objectionable.”
His words struck me as callous until I realised the statement was not made in jest.
“Holmes, it’s late and I know you’ll want an early start. Should we retire?” I offered. The bed, dressed in a white quilt and linens, looked tempting after such a filling meal.
Holmes stretched and ran his hand through his hair, loosening it from the grip of his pomade.
“Don’t let me keep you up, I cannot yet still my mind.”
I dressed for bed as he sat in a chair with his back to me, packing his pipe in preparation for a long period of contemplation. I wanted to stay awake in case I might be of further use to him but the comfort of the bed lulled me to a pleasant half-sleep in which I was aware of Holmes sitting beside the warm light of the gaslamp, yet seeped in that unreality belonging to the world of dreams. When a body slipped in beside me I rolled towards it beneath the blanket.
“Holmes?” I mumbled against the pillow.
The delicate touch of fingers in my hair, a thumb smoothing the edge of my moustache, and then: “Go to sleep, John.”
Mollified, I slept.
I woke with sunlight streaming through the open windows and the mournful ululation of gulls in the air. The slight breeze from over the water brought the scent of brine and… bacon. Holmes sat by the window, lost in thought.
“Good morning,” I said, sitting up and stretching.
”A good morning indeed,” he replied. “I shall need your assistance, Watson. We have a particular fish to catch.”
I got up and dressed quickly. “Have I time for breakfast?”
”If you promise not to linger. I have sent a message to the blackmailer on behalf of our host asking to meet and negotiate. I expect he will send a proxy, but I need your eyes and ears. And possibly your service revolver.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You did bring it, didn’t you?”
To my shock, Holmes explained a rather simple plan so loudly over coffee that the entire household and anyone passing too close to the house must have heard. Suffice it to say, this was a complete fabrication to determine who in Osmington’s household might be the conspirator who stole the letters in the first place. But I will relate the adventures of this day and the next in a separate tale once sufficient time has elapsed that our host would not be compromised further.
For now, it is enough to relate that Lord Osmington and Herr Brandmeier could continue to live quietly, Osmington’s nephew would inherit—in the fullness of time—and the boy’s father’s absence would be explained away by a sudden desire to pursue business interests in Australia.
Although the loss of a formerly trusted maid and betrayal by a family member had shaken the little household to the core, Lord Osmington and his lover were much at ease following the day’s confrontations and their relief was infectious. By the time we returned to our shared room it was nearly midnight.
“I shall sleep soundly tonight, I think,” Holmes declared, pulling his nightshirt over his head while still dressed in the shirt below it. He methodically removed his clothing from within, as though he were shy of me, and although I made a gentlemanly effort to turn away to give him privacy he finished dressing in that strange manner. His modesty made me more aware of my own body. I had several unbecoming scars that I did not yet feel comfortable revealing so I waited until Holmes had snuffed out the light before dressing for bed.
To my surprise as soon as I lay beside him he reached out and took my hand.
“You were the greater part of my strength today,” he said. “I truly don’t know what I would have done without your fortitude and clear head.”
I smiled at the generous praise, hoping he could see it in the dark. “I hope to always be.”
We gazed at one another for a moment as my eyes adjusted and I felt strongly that he wanted to say more but could not summon the words. I squeezed his hand and he squeezed back, which set my heart fluttering with nervous anticipation. He did not speak again but kept hold of my hand so that we were obligated to sleep facing one another, and what a happy obligation it was.
I woke during the pre-dawn light to find Holmes had released my hand and I had rolled onto my back. I realised after about a minute that I had been woken not by a call of nature or by the gulls or by discomfort from my injuries, but by the lightest of touches on my disfigured shoulder.
Holmes must have sensed that I was awake, for the touch vanished. He sighed and murmured, “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
“I don’t mind,” I said quietly. “The scar tissue does not hurt. I have no feeling there at all. Occasionally there is an ache from the torn muscle and sometimes a deeper pain—if the jezail bullet that is still lodged in me shifts, I suppose—but otherwise it doesn’t trouble me much.”
“But it does trouble you.” Light fingertips pushed under the loose collar of my nightshirt and mapped the perimeter of my ugly wound. “We have shared a room in many a country inn, yet I have never seen your scar.” His fingertips stilled and the flat of his hand warmed my shoulder instead.
I laughed softly. ”So says the man who would rather struggle to undress under his tent of a nightgown than bare a single square inch.”
He scoffed. “You have a rather fine physique.” He withdrew his hand and used it to cover a yawn. “There’s no reason to hide it. I, however, appear to have been constructed entirely from string and matchsticks.”
I couldn’t help the guffaw that escaped me. “Holmes, my dear fellow, you are quite the most striking figure.” When he did not reply, I added, “You are tall, elegant and graceful. Beside you, I rather think I look like some kind of bear.”
His hand rested on the front of my shoulder again. I clasped it with my own and thought of the moment two nights earlier when I had realised he was gently stroking my moustache. I brought his hand up to my face and kissed his knuckles once, but I believe he was asleep again, for he did not react.
On the morning following Holmes’s successful resolution of the case, I did linger over bacon and eggs, for there was no hurry. Holmes had got up and dressed before me. I found him in the dining room with our host.
“Will you return to London this afternoon?” Osmington asked as he fetched the coffee pot from the sideboard.
“I have persuaded Holmes to take a holiday,” I replied, smiling at the very idea of Holmes relaxing. “I thought perhaps Lyme Regis or Lulworth Cove. I have a great desire to spend a few days by the seaside.”
”Oh!” Osmington brightened. “Unless you have particular sights you wish to see, you could do that here. Our little cove is sheltered and private.” He smiled and looked toward the window. “The clifftop path diverts around the house, so there will be no one peering down at you.”
Holmes, who had been studiously ignoring the conversation in favour of reading the local newspaper, caught my eye and gave me a rather relieved look.
”That is a very generous offer,” I said. “Are you sure it would be no trouble? I wouldn’t want to intrude upon your peace.”
”I insist.” Osmington looked up as Brandmeier came in. “Emil, our guests will be staying on for a few days.” He looked from Holmes to me then to Brandmeier. “I think we can drop the act. Don’t you?”
Brandmeier laughed softly and stroked Osmington’s hair on his way to the sideboard to serve himself breakfast.
The small but poignant gesture of affection filled me with fresh longing to touch Holmes again. No one could have been safer than our hosts to express myself in front of– only I still did not know how much my dearest friend felt comfortable with. Holmes, for his part, maintained all the wit and charm he had in spades when he enjoyed the company so that we were all soon laughing together like old friends.
“Well,” I said, with a glance at Holmes, after he had exhausted the local supply of gossip and I had exhausted my appetite. “Perhaps we might explore the beach today.”
”You should. It’s beautiful.”
Herr Brandmeier’s voice was soft and melodic with only the slightest hint of an accent. Osmington replied with a few words and an endearment in German that made Holmes avoid my eyes and blush slightly. I confess to a stab of unwarranted jealousy because I wanted to be the cause of such expressions on his face.
“Holmes?” I looked at him hopefully. His reply was a smile and a nod.
Within the hour we were picking our way down a worn path along the cliffs that afforded a remarkable view of the Channel. Our hosts had sent us with a picnic basket, despite my protests that we’d had our fill.
“If you find the sea air half as invigorating as we do you’ll want to keep up your strength,” Osmington said with a knowing look that left me flustered and feeling oddly as though Holmes and I were being sent away for the specific purpose of being alone. The moment we arrived on the beach I was glad of it. Holmes shed all but his shirtsleeves and trousers, leaving his shoes and clothes in a heap on the heavy blanket we unfurled on the sand. I took my cue from him, having left my bathing suit back in our room. I reasoned that I could save the swimming for when I knew the lay of the land better– or at least this was the excuse I gave myself to avoid scrutiny. My old straw hat was more hindrance than help in the wind so I put it down and pinned the brim beneath the picnic basket.
We walked along the narrow coast, hands in pockets and eyes squinting against the sun and the spray. Holmes said nothing so I joined him in silence, relaxing as the call of birds and the crash of the surf provided a soothing accompaniment to our stroll.
“When I was a boy my parents took us on a trip to the seaside. It was a beach such as this, where one could walk barefoot, although my nanny forbade it.”
I turned in surprise at the statement. Save for his brother, Mycroft, Holmes had never mentioned family before nor given any indication that he hadn’t sprung fully formed into the world like Athena.
“The seaside is always exciting for a child,” I agreed.
Holmes lapsed back into silence and we returned the way we’d come by some unspoken agreement. When we reached our blanket he sat with his legs crossed and closed his eyes. The wind made a mop of his untamed hair, blowing it to and fro across his forehead until he looked as I imagined the little boy who had first set foot on a beach with his strict nanny.
I peeked in the picnic basket and laughed in surprise.
“Holmes, look! Lord Osmington has been quite generous!”
He smiled but did not open his eyes. “Describe it to me.”
“There’s a half-bottle of Sauterne, a loaf of fresh bread, a pot of marmalade, strawberries, cold duck, a jug of lemonade…” I dug through the basket, amazed at the care that had gone into our provisions, “And some sort of pie.”
“Very generous, indeed.”
I closed the basket and positioned myself inelegantly beside Holmes.
“I’m still full from breakfast but if you’d like a bit of wine…”
“No, thank you, but there is one thing you could do for me.”
“What’s that, my dear fellow?” I asked, bracing myself in expectation of an admonishment for chattering away while he was trying to relax.
“There is a chill in the air, don’t you feel it?”
“I’m comfortable, but let me get your jacket.”
Holmes sighed. “I’m cold, Watson, will you warm me?”
I looked up to meet his eyes, lidded and framed with impossibly long lashes.
When I put an arm around him he softened against me, so that I took his full weight. We went from sitting parallel to one another to a far more intimate position with Holmes’s back nestled against my chest and my arms and legs bracketing his.
“Is this all right?” I asked, barely trusting myself to speak. He hummed in contentment, sinking lower. I did not know what to do with my arms then, so I embraced him from behind.
“That’s perfect,” he said, his voice barely audible over the waves. “My dear Watson, your heart is pounding.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Is it?”
He turned in my arms so he could rest his head against my shoulder, One hand slipped into my unbuttoned shirt front and I closed my eyes when his graceful fingers caressed the wiry curls on my chest.
“You are rather bearish,” he declared, provoking me to laughter. He tilted his head up towards me and added, ”Mon ourson.”
Trembling, I pressed a kiss to his forehead. He touched my chin with his forefinger and traced my lips, inviting a proper kiss. His hot mouth tasted of salt, or perhaps it was the sea air.
Invigorating.
The next few hours passed in a blissful blur. I remember sharing sips of Sauterne from the bottle, pausing only to press our wine-sweetened lips together. We did not speak as we held one another; as we made maps of ears and shoulders and necks and noses with exploratory kisses. We pulled apart only to eat and he sat beside me so that our knees still touched. I would have happily fallen asleep on the beach with Holmes in my arms had he not yawned and stretched and helped me to my feet.
“We should go back before we’re missed.”
I did not protest but quietly repacked the basket and assisted in shaking out the blanket. The sentimental part of me wanted to keep that blanket as a token of our stolen hours, hoping it would smell of him. I imagined pressing the rough, sandy fabric to my nose and reliving the memory.
We returned in time for dinner, which passed in a daze. I could not keep my eyes off Holmes that evening and he favoured me with a mischievous half smile. So desperate was I to be alone with him again that when our hosts exchanged glances and suggested we all retire early I did not even have the decency to protest.
We said our polite goodnights and left the dining room. I imagined I could feel our hosts’ eyes on my back as I followed Holmes out. A sigh behind me made me pause and turn. At the sight of Brandmeier leaning in to meet Osmington in a kiss, my breath caught at the possibility that Holmes and I might share such private moments when we returned to London.
I closed the door quietly and went up to our room. Holmes was already inside, jacket discarded on the chair, tie loosened and waistcoat unbuttoned. He was standing with an uncertain frown on his fine features, looking out through the open window. I joined him. Moonlight sparkled the waves and turned the surf into something almost magical, almost alive.
I clasped his hand and we stood for minutes, our hearts and minds eased by the sights and sounds of the sea.
Eventually he became restless. I closed the window, but he stilled my arm with a light touch of his hand when I went to close the curtains. I understood. He did not want darkness, but the yellow gaslight would be too much. I turned to him, his eyes glinting with moonlight and his pale skin seeming silver under stark, black hair. He looked for all the world like a member of the fae from a book I had read as a child, and I half expected gossamer wings to sprout from his back like those of the dragonflies and damselflies that flitted around the gorse on the clifftop.
“May I?” I asked, lifting my hand to his collar. He nodded. I stroked his cheek lightly then followed the line of his jaw from ear to chin. I tilted his head down for a soft kiss, barely a touch of my lips to his, then unfastened his collar studs. I placed them on the windowsill and dropped the stiff collar and black tie to the floor. I pushed his waistcoat off his shoulders and he let it fall beside his collar.
”Wait. You too.”
I paused with my hand halfway to his shirt buttons. He assisted me in removing my clothing until I stood before him in shirt, drawers and socks.
”You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” I murmured. “I can wait until you are ready to show yourself to me.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. I stepped back a little and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, I removed the rest of my clothes. His long fingers reached out to my shoulder, to my pale and shiny scar. But his hand diverted at the last moment and his fingernails scratched through the generous covering of hair that grew across my chest.
I laughed at the ticklish sensation and he smiled. In a graceful movement, he leaned down and kissed the healthy skin at the edge of the scar, just where sensation returned.
”I hate that it causes you pain, but had you not been injured you would not have been in London looking for rooms to share.”
”Holmes… Sherlock, oh my dear Sherlock.”
I cupped his face in both hands and kissed him. His hands slid around my back and pulled me closer. I hung on around his neck as if I was drowning and he saving me, and I kissed him with a passion I never expected to be able to express so openly.
We broke apart eventually, my lips tingling from his keen attention. From the way his cheek muscles moved against mine I knew that he smiled. ”Is it inappropriate that I hold a certain fondness for your scar? I should like to kiss it again.”
I laughed softly. “Only the one on my shoulder? My dearest, there is another on my thigh.”
His giggle was the best answer I could have hoped for.
“Show me,” he murmured close to my ear as he kissed my cheek again. I resolved then that I would let him see what he liked, for whom could I trust if not my dear Holmes? So I stepped back to present myself to him in the moonlight, painfully aware of each physical fault.
Holmes stepped forward, dropped to his knees, and traced the scar high on my outer thigh, running his long fingers over the puckered skin. His eyes met mine as he leaned in to press a reverent kiss to the spot.
My breath hitched at the contact and he continued to kiss the contours of my thigh, one hand coming up to stroke the soft flesh inside. I was fully erect but I felt no shame in it. I wanted him to know how he stoked my ardour.
He pressed a kiss to my belly and stood.
“You’re perfect, John.”
With my hands in his he drew me towards the bed and bade me to sit. He could not look me in the eye as he began to remove his clothing but something in my gaze must have inspired him for he grew more confident when his linens fell to the floor and straightened a little for me.
“Come here,” I whispered, overwhelmed with desire for his delicate hips, his shapely feet, his unexpectedly defined legs… I’d seen him shirtless before but i’d no idea what a lovely figure he had below the waist. His small and delectable cock jutted out from a nest of black curls with the same eagerness I displayed. I longed to kiss it.
He watched me with a hint of wariness, despite my beckoning gesture.
“Have you ever made love to a man before?”
“No,” he admitted. “Well… I’ve had some experience with mutual release but it was only mildly gratifying and there was nothing particularly loving about it.”
I swallowed, my heart aching in sympathy.
“Would you like to… With me?”
“Very much, but you must be patient with me. You must promise not to hold my inexperience against me, for I’m sure you have had a great deal of experience that I cannot hope to match.”
“Oh, Sherlock... Come here, come sit with me.”
He perched on my lap so we could indulge in heated kisses. I held him around his shoulders and lay back, pulling him with me. He laughed and rolled aside so that we could arrange ourselves more comfortably in bed, face to face with the sheet as high as our waists. I stroked his hair and kissed him, then rolled him onto his back and lay half on top of him.
He held me tightly and murmured my name. I murmured a question back at him: do you trust me? His breath hitched before he let it out in a hiss formed from his whispered yesss.
I was sure that my own experience was not as extensive as my dear Sherlock imagined, but I knew well enough how to give pleasure. I left his side for only a few seconds to retrieve the pot of vaseline I always carried in my bag—packed beside the suture kit and the iodine and the dressings.
When I clambered back into bed, I eased my knees between his and settled my weight on him gradually. He pushed himself up a little on his elbows to meet me in a kiss, then he lay back. I explored the pale expanse of his chest and stomach with my lips and tongue, paying attention to all the places where his soft moans directed me to linger, moving swiftly on when his heaving ribs threatened to ruin the moment with a burst of laughter.
I trailed my fingers through the springy hair around his root and clasped his staff gently. I lowered my head and pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock. He emitted a soft oh! as I did so. In an uncharacteristically ungainly movement, his hand landed in my hair. I took this as encouragement. As I parted my wetted lips and sank down to envelop almost the entirety of his pretty little prick, the hand in my hair tightened and his other hand flew up to stifle the most delightfully obscene sound I have ever heard him make.
I was sure I could have him at his petit mort in a matter of a minute or two, but his confession of lack of experience had made me silently resolve that he would know that I loved him, even if I never uttered those words. I lavished careful attention on his prick, remaining aware of his breathing and the muffled moans and curses coming from behind the pillow he had grabbed to stifle his cries. The fist in my hair clenched and released, clenched and released, and his thighs gripped my sides.
When I thought he could take no more, I groped for the pot of vaseline, popped the lid off and smeared one finger. This, I rubbed gently back from his balls to his roundmouth and pushed into him while his hips bucked and his prick thrust almost to the back of my throat. With a series of hard, ragged breaths, he spent and I swallowed.
He lay slack. I eased my finger from him, crawled up the bed and held him tightly against me, kissing his hair and murmuring sweet nonsense. When he regained his senses, he blinked at me with damp eyes. “I have never… I mean to say…” He sighed. “You will find my attentions rather amateurish.”
I smiled and kissed his forehead. “I’m going to wash and clean my teeth. After that, my greatest desire is to sleep with you in my arms.”
I meant it sincerely, but I did not protest when his hand wrapped around my staff. The fact that this was Sherlock touching me in such a loving way brought me to a moment of bliss more intense than I had experienced for a long time.
We took turns at the washstand in the low light, newly shy around one another in the particular way that lovers are after the first vulnerable union. Although he had not changed at all, the Sherlock Holmes I went to bed with was a new volume in an existing series of beloved stories, waiting to be read, re-read, memorised, digested; to have my notes scrawled in the corners, so to speak. I wished to know him entirely and please him in every intimate way.
Once we were tucked beneath the covers the outside world seemed to melt away. I slipped my arms around him and he nestled against my chest with a sigh that etched itself upon my heart.
But the urge to tell him that I loved him; that I would always love him and desperately desired a confession of love in turn could only be denied for so long. In the early hours of the morning, when I woke to his prominent nose nuzzling sweetly under my jaw and his fingers tracing my wounded shoulder I found my courage.
“Sherlock, I want you to know that–”
His forefinger tapped my lips, halting my speech.
“I know,” he mumbled against my neck between kisses.
“What do you know?”
"I know that you are the only man I want at my side," he said with a finality that made any further attempt at a heartfelt confession redundant.
There remained only one question, then.
“When we return home, will you still want to share a bed?” My voice rose slightly on a plea, shaming me.
“Home,” he repeated, thoughtful. He pulled back to smile at me. “Wherever I am fortunate enough to sleep in my Watson’s arms is where I call home. That will not change at Baker street.”
Elated at his words I clutched him tighter; chest lighter, head clearer, and heart fuller than it had been in a very long time.
“Dorset.”
Holmes held the unopened envelope out to me, a smile crinkling the deep lines by his eyes. I set down my coffee cup on our painted kitchen table, pushed my hand through my thinning hair and plucked the stiff, cream paper from his fingertips. On the back, the navy-blue seal with the siren was familiar, as was the handwriting on the front.
”Dorset.” I echoed with a growing smile. “I hope Emil’s bronchitis has eased and that William is looking after him properly.”
Holmes laughed. “Open it and find out. If William Osmington is anything like you as a nursemaid, Emil Brandmeier will be as fat as a Christmas goose by now.”
I slit the envelope with Homes’s unused butterknife and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. “It’s an invitation. Emil says he and William are moving back to their seaside cottage so that the Osmington heir and his wife can play at being lord and lady of the manor with approximately a hundred rowdy children.” I shook my head and put the letter down. “Cottage! My arse. We live in a cottage. Their seaside hideaway would house you, me and a dozen of the Irregulars.”
Holmes shook with silent laughter. “When is the proposed visit?”
I pushed the letter over to Holmes. “Any time in July or August.”
”Dorset in July!” Holmes gave me a wink. “It will be glorious.”
And so, more than twenty-five years after we had made firm friends out of clients, we took two trains and a bumpy carriage ride to Lord Osmington’s seaside retreat.
Although Holmes and I were older and greyer than we’d been that long ago summer, the thought of returning to the place where we’d first been intimate gave me an anticipatory flutter that I had not felt in years. I studied my longtime companion as the carriage turned onto the gravel road that led to the grand house. Save for a receding hairline that made him look more distinguished, and a few well-earned wrinkles lending even more warmth and charm to his smiles, he did not look any different to me.
Holmes exited the cab first and took my hand to assist me. We strolled arm in arm up the walk as our hosts, alerted to our presence, emerged from the front entrance to greet us. A young man in livery assisted the coachman with our baggage.
“So good to see you again,” William Osmington said, clasping each of our hands in turn. Emil offered me an embrace but gave Holmes a respectful handshake.
“It will be just like old times,” he said, smiling at both of us.
“You sound as though you’ve made a full recovery,” I said, relieved that his voice sounded healthy and strong.
“This marvellous sea air has been good for Emil and me,” Osmington proclaimed, “Please come in, we have a new cook who prepares the most delightful Sachertorte.”
“I look forward to it,” I said as our hosts shepherded us inside.
Once safely in the privacy of our room, Holmes stood close behind me by the window and stroked his hands over the curve of my belly while we looked out over the sea.
“Perhaps I ought to give the Sachertorte a miss,” I said, leaning back into him and placing my own hands over his when they came to rest on my abdomen.
“You should not deny yourself such simple pleasures, my dear,” he replied, kissing my cheek. “You will need food to fuel all the long walks and sea swimming you plan to do.”
“You’ll join me?” I turned in his arms and clasped my hands behind his back.
“A picnic on the beach, perhaps. And a walk, barefoot, across the sand.”
”I brought our bathing costumes.” I caught Holmes’s eye and we laughed.
Dinner was a lighthearted, informal event. The liveried servant brought consommé, then lemon buttered fillets of delicately flavoured sole that Osmington boasted of having caught himself (while Brandmeier laughed at the obviously familiar fisherman’s tale). A roast fowl formed the main course and there were fresh berries with sweetened cream alongside the promised Sachertorte for dessert.
Over port and cigars we caught up with each others’ lives. We had dined with Osmington at Simpson’s on his rare visits to London, and I had exchanged a few carefully polite letters with Brandmeier. Holmes sat back and listened drowsily after informing our hosts that he was writing a book on bee-keeping. I said that in our retirement, I had extended my writing repertoire under a pseudonym, and astonished Osmington by having published a novel that he had enjoyed in complete ignorance of the identity of its author.
Later, as Osmington yawned and Holmes unashamedly dozed in his chair, Brandmeier told me that he had recognised my style and purchased the hardback for Osmington as a gift.
“You said you would write about our old problem once enough time had elapsed,” Brandmeier reminded me quietly. Holmes watched me through half-closed eyelids. Osmington set down the last inch of his cigar and clasped his hands.
I looked around at the three pairs of eyes fixed on me, then scoffed. ”I think I have enough stories to tell that yours can wait a while longer. I shouldn’t be surprised if I never get around to sending it to The Strand.”
Holmes smiled and closed his eyes again. Osmington covered another yawn and stood up. Brandmeier reached over and squeezed my arm. I wondered a little sourly if this was the entire point of the invitation, but the momentary uncharitable thought was soon swept away by a round of good natured goodnights.
Holmes took my arm as we went upstairs. The window remained wide open to allow nighttime sea air to cool the bedroom, and moonlight cast its magical glow over the white bedspread.
“Do you remember—” I began to ask.
”Yes.” Holmes laughed. “And you are still a fine figure, mon ourson.”
I tugged him into my arms with a playful growl. The fresh but nostalgic setting, fine dinner, and promise of a relaxed week in the country put me in a lively mood. Holmes tittered as I nipped at his neck and brushed my moustache against his cheek.
“Come to bed, dear heart,” I murmured in his ear. His hum of pleasure was all the encouragement I needed.
We quickly undressed and slipped beneath the covers. Though age had tempered the heat of youthful desire, my body responded to his with no less enthusiasm. Nor did we feel the need to rush to our mutual crises, but luxuriated in slow and measured kisses and a languid exploration of favourite places to stroke and tease.
“I’ve missed this,” he admitted after I lay on my back in the pleasant bliss that followed with Holmes curled against my side.
I kissed the top of his head. “So have I, love, but you’ve been almost as busy in retirement as you ever were in London and it does my heart good to see it. I could not very well have a stern talking to with your bees about reserving some of that stamina for our nights together.”
Holmes let out a delighted laugh. “It’s true. This early spring has kept me occupied with research for the book. Forgive me for neglecting your needs.”
“Nothing to forgive,” I assured him, clasping his hand to my chest. “Besides, you keep me warm on lazy winter mornings. To everything there is a season,” I quoted.
“You spoil me, John,” he said softly, lifting his head for another kiss. In our youth such tender words might have preceded another passionate tumble but now I was wholly content to kiss him goodnight and settle into the comfort of sleep with my Sherlock snug in my arms.
The next day saw us rise late and breakfast alone. There was a note beside the coffee pot on the sideboard informing us that our hosts had gone swimming and we were welcome to join them for a picnic lunch. I packed our bathing suits into a bag along with a blanket and two towels the footman provided. Holmes added a book on the natural history of the area that he had found in the library, and I added the adventure novel I was currently reading. After a moment’s hesitation, I suggested that we leave our jackets and waistcoats behind and venture out in shirtsleeves.
Our hosts saw us carefully descending the path from the clifftop and waved at us from the sun-sparkled water. The midday sun promised a sweltering afternoon,and I was glad to be by the seaside and not baking in our old sitting room in London.
“A splash in the shallows is a delightful prospect,” I said as we reached the sand and could walk side by side again. “Will you join me?”
“If I need to cool off.”
Holmes took my arm and we walked to the spot where we had tentatively expressed our affections so long ago. I dropped our bag, shook out the blanket and spread it on the soft sand, then weighted one of the corners with my shoes and socks. Holmes laughed and sacrificed his shoes for a similar purpose. We reclined side by side for a while in quiet companionship, then sat back to back so that we could read more comfortably.
”My joints are aching,” I informed Holmes after a while. “I’m going swimming.”
He smiled as I retrieved my bathing suit and looked around to ensure at least a little privacy to change. I faced away from the sea and quickly removed my trousers and drawers, my shirt tails providing a little modesty. I held my bathing suit up, but before I could put it on I froze as a loud chuckle came from behind me.
“There’s no need to wear that old thing. I bet it holds so much water you would put yourself at risk of drowning.”
Osmington’s voice made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I clutched the garment to my body. “Well, what else should I wear to swim?”
Holmes waved at me to catch my attention and twirled his fingers.
Turn around.
It was the absolute last thing I wanted to do, but his eyes showed merriment. I turned around. To my great shock, I was confronted by the sight of Osmington and Brandmeier, their nude skin glistening with water droplets.
All three men burst out laughing at my consternation.
“My dearest, please put that travesty of a garment down and bathe as nature intended.”
I glared at Holmes. “I will if you will.”
Holmes studied me for a moment and then stood and deftly removed his own clothing. To see him naked in the sunshine with two other men behind him in the same state stirred up conflicting feelings and a bit of annoyance that I had been marked as the prudish one. Though I had often bathed nude in the company of other men in the army and the bathhouses saw plenty of Holmes and I over the years, I felt a measure of shame at my ageing body. Brandmeier and Osmington were as lean and tanned as a pair of serious swimmers ought to be– and it did not miss my gaze that the former was enviously endowed. My Holmes, however, oustripped them both in beauty. I cast an appreciative eye over muscles still toned beneath looser skin; his wiry frame and grizzled curls; the perfectly formed arbor vitae that I had pleasured and taken pleasure from in turn over the years.
Our hosts walked back to the water hand in hand as I undressed, giving us a bit of privacy. As soon as I cast aside my clothes I flushed with embarrassment at the way my belly hung over my crotch. The sunshine was a cruel spotlight on everything about me that did not measure up to the young army surgeon I had been. Holmes noticed and placed his hands on my shoulders.
“My dear fellow, I thought you would be pleased to go for a swim with me.”
“Oh, it’s not you, Holmes, I just didn’t expect to have to reveal so much of myself in front of anyone else.”
He slipped an arm around me and walked me down to the water. “On the contrary I would be false in saying I did not feel a bit of pride in showing you off.”
“Don’t mock me,” I whispered.
“Have I ever?” His earnest eyes met mine. “My handsome soldier, hale and hearty! You look as strong as an ox and I’m the only one who has the pleasure of this,” he gave my bottom an affectionate squeeze and I blushed anew.
“If anything, I’m the one who can’t measure up to our hosts. I must confess that Herr Brandmeier’s proportions are enough to make a man shy.”
“Really?” I feigned indifference and took his hand as we waded out until the water was deep enough that the gentle swell of the waves lapped as high as my waist. “I can’t say that I noticed. I have never had the slightest cause to complain in that regard. Do you want to know what I find most appealing about your anatomy?” He raised his eyebrows at me. I smiled sweetly. “That it is yours, my dearest.”
Holmes laughed then pointed to where the breakwater jutted out from the shore. “A race?”
”Is there a prize?”
He held my gaze for several seconds, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ”I have the greatest prize already. What more might I wish for?”
We set off after a count of three. Holmes had the natural advantage of longer limbs and a more slender profile. Despite a more muscular physique, I had the disadvantage of a weakened shoulder and thigh. Of course he won, but he did not leave me so far in his wake as to make it look hopeless. When I caught up to him, he demanded a briny kiss and I happily obliged.
Out where the water was deeper, the temperature dropped. Despite the July afternoon sun, we chilled and were sent splashing back to the warmer shallows. When I realised I was hungry, we left the surf and walked up the beach, the air drying us more thoroughly and more comfortably than a towel would. We followed the example of our hosts and wound the towels around our waists for decency, and joined them for a picnic.
The good natured banter of our fellows and Holmes’s joyful mood set me at such ease that I ran a soothing hand up and down his back as we talked and sipped lemonade from a shared bottle. To my delight he nestled against me in the rarest display of affection I’d ever won from him in a public setting– or at least one more public than the two of us. He even finished two cold herring sandwiches without my encouragement. After eating we dressed and cosied up on our blanket. Although our hosts were content to lounge in only the scant cover of a towel on the beach I was feeling amorous and wanted more cover for my loins than the fabric provided. Holmes lay with his back to my chest and dozed off while I ran my fingers through his hair. I cherished a quiet moment of this before suggesting that we return to the house, for even in the relative shade of the cliffs we were unused to so much sun.
Osmington offered a game of whist when we returned but Holmes graciously declined with a yawn and begged off to take an afternoon nap. I remained for half an hour to catch up on the local news, which Brandmeier excitedly shared.
“You look tired,” he said suddenly. “Why don’t you join your partner and we can all play cards after dinner.”
“That sounds ideal, thank you.”
I did not dwell on what he thought Holmes and I would be doing after our doting behaviour on the beach, for I had the same idea in mind. But when I entered our room Holmes was fast asleep so I joined him beneath the covers.
“Oh, Watson, what time is it?”
“It’s nearly two and you may sleep until dinner if you like.”
He pressed his face to my chest and inhaled deeply. “I am afraid I may. I’d forgotten how strenuous swimming is. You still smell of the beach.”
“Well don’t expect me to bathe after a swim,” I teased him.
“No, no, it’s very comforting.”
I kissed his forehead and curled around him; the warmth of his body and the chill of the sheets provided the perfect recipe for a nap. I’d nearly drifted off when I felt his arms tighten around me.
“What is it, my dear?”
“Our first night together here in this bedroom you were very clear about your feelings for me. I fear that I was not so clear.”
“Come now, old fellow, we were young men with the pride and inexperience that is the domain of young men,”
“John… you know I love you, don’t you?”
My heart swelled at the simple confession. He had told me in so many ways over the years but rarely in words.
“I know you do.”
He kissed me drowsily, turned so that I could fit against his back, and was soon breathing evenly, his limbs as loose as a rag doll’s. As I followed him into slumber, lulled by the sound of the sea and the gulls, I tucked this moment away into my memory to join all the other moments I would treasure forever.