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I awaken slowly to hear the rhythmic breath of my beloved beside me and feel the warmth of his skin where we touch. His hair is flecked with silver in the back, like a scattering of stars in the night sky, though it is more solidly gray at the temples. I nuzzle my face into the back of his neck and kiss him at his hairline, moving my hand down his hip until I feel the raised line of scar tissue. I trace my fingers up and down the thickened skin, thinking back to the story it tells. Holmes turns under my arm and buries his face into the space under my chin, sighing, “Always” and I kiss the top of his head and whisper back, “Quite so” before we both doze off again until the sun is a bit higher in the sky.
It had been several weeks since that first adventure with Holmes, the story which I later published about the Jefferson Hope case. He had since taken up another case, or perhaps cases, of which I knew no details. He returned home one evening—or morning rather—at quite an unexpected hour. I was not awake solely because I was listening for his return, as I did have trouble sleeping in those days after the war, but his absence and my curiosity of his whereabouts contributed to my restlessness.
It did not help that this man who I found so interesting in a myriad of ways—intellectually, vocationally, and even philosophically—was also attractive to the point of distraction. What began as interests in my fellow lodger’s unusual ways and profession had turned into fascination. Initially, I found him handsome despite his unconventional looks, however, the energy he possessed, the sheer physicality with which he expressed himself in the movements of his long limbs and graceful hands, his sparkling eyes, minute facial expressions, and silken voice had grown into what I can only describe as lust.
I suppose I have always been considered a handsome man, especially before my injury and subsequent illness. And while I still retain the sketch of those good looks, I know from the lips of those I have taken into my bed that my kind eyes, my hearty laugh, and my expert touch are features I still retain despite my shattered health and wasted musculature. If my bed has been empty more often since my return to London, it is by choice rather than by circumstance. I have enjoyed dalliances and forays, but the man who came to London to focus on regaining his health and recover from war is a far cry from the young doctor who left. That is not to say that I have lived the life of the ascetic since my return, or since taking rooms at Baker Street, but those dalliances have declined since Holmes won my attention.
As I lay awake wondering at the whereabouts of my fellow lodger and whose bed he may be in at the moment, I considered my own circumstances. It had been two months I realized, going over the names and faces in my mind. As my interests in Holmes had increased, as my fascination with the man and his work had grown, my desire for the company of others had decreased. When with him, I spent my time covertly studying his manner, the shape of his ears, the way he leaned forward in his chair when thinking, how he sipped his tea when it was too hot. When I was not with him, I found my thoughts were often of him, wondering at his background, what had started him upon his unique profession, or who he liked to take to bed. I found evenings when he was out to be the most unnerving for I could not stop my mind from wondering, often in sharp detail, at what his touch was like, how his skin smelled, and what he looked like upon waking in the mornings. The last time anything of this sort had occurred I’d found myself very nearly falling in love. I laughed to myself in the dark and told myself I should go out tomorrow to find a good and proper lay to get it out of my system. Henceforth, I would consign my interests in my detached, delicately boned and bright-eyed flatmate to my scribbling of our adventure.
Below, I heard the door close. I heard him ascend the stairs and fumble with the sitting room door before it was closed with a bit more force than strictly necessary. Unsure if this was accidental or meant to call my attention to his return, I decided it was not meant to be a secret that he had arrived and thus decided to go down to pay a visit and perhaps assuage a bit more of my curiosity in my flatmate. I pulled my dressing gown around me and glanced at my watch which read a quarter to three.
The door to our sitting room gave me pause as my candle flame picked out a deep red smear above the knob. Peering closer, it appeared to be blood. Concerned, I threw open the sitting room door to find Holmes slouched at the mantle lighting his pipe in the dark. His head turned quickly at my sudden entrance.
“Holmes! I heard you come in and there appears to be blood upon the door. Are you injured?” I blew out my candle as I turned up the gas lamps.
“Ah, Watson. I apologize for waking you,” he said, his eyes sliding over me before looking away. “Just a bit of a scratch, nothing to worry over. I am quite alright.”
“You didn’t awaken me, for I was not asleep. To leave blood smeared upon the door, it must be more than a scratch. Let me fetch my bag and take a look,” I said stepping towards him and further away from my medical bag by the door. “Your color looks a bit peaked. Where are you hurt?”
His hand, which was smeared with blood, came up in protest as he fended off my question and attention. His eyes flashed to me and then away, almost shyly, which was not his nature. Belatedly I realized this was the first time I had shown myself downstairs in my nightshirt and dressing gown and I wondered if he was put off by my lack of decorum.
“It is fine, Watson, I assure you. I was careless in not noticing that the rogue was equipped with a knife in each hand. He is in custody now, although I doubt he has yet to regain consciousness. I am quite capable of bandaging my own wounds. There’s really no need to trouble yourself. Return to bed, I assure you I am alright.”
“It is no trouble at all, my good man. And while I have no doubt you are capable of taking care of yourself, it is easier and quicker with a second set of hands to assist. I have no wish to pry, only to satisfy myself as to your diagnosis. Do let me look you over and then we can both be off to bed. I won’t be able to rest otherwise.” I had knelt beside where he was seated and gazed in concern at his sharp features, wishing to be of assistance to him and anxious for his wellbeing.
He glanced at me again before looking away. “Very well,” he uttered quietly, as if unconvinced.
I rose to fetch my bag and turned towards his bedroom, asking over my shoulder if he had a pitcher of water or if I should need to fetch mine. I looked back to see him gingerly removing his jacket, a slightly blank look upon his face.
“Would you not be more comfortable in your room?” I inquired. He blinked at me and then nodded, pushing back a dislodged lock of hair which had fallen into his eyes. My, but he was beautiful when his hair was askew. I pushed this thought away quickly.
He lay his jacket over the chair beside his washstand and stood before me, eyes focused on the basin and towel. He looked as if he were waiting to receive news of an incurable disease. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. I motioned for him to take the chair and he sat abruptly, emitting a quiet hiss of pain. With his jacket removed it was easy to see the gash of red at his left hip where the fabric of his trousers was cut and the blood had soaked his shirttail and linens underneath. Again I dropped to my knee beside him.
“Is your hip the only place you are cut?,” I asked quietly. He nodded, still looking at the basin. He was probably of the type who avoided doctors. “Unfasten your braces and your trousers,” I said standing and looking him over. His knuckles were split on one hand, the crimson stark against his pale skin. I wanted to put my hand out to caress his slim fingers and sharply rebuked myself. Being awaken in the middle of the night to attend to a bleeding man was something I was fully capable of performing without emotion. He shifted awkwardly to unbutton the left side of his suspenders. “Are your ribs hurt? You’re holding yourself rather stiffly. Come here and lets get that shirt open, as well,” I said, motioning for him to rise and stand before me.
Without meeting my eye, he rose and began loosening his tie. He unbuttoned his collar, glancing at me and then away. I distracted myself by arranging the gauze I had already set out so that I did not have to watch as he bared his chest. In the basin mirror, however, I could see his eyes fixed upon me as his hands moved steadily down his front, releasing buttons from his shirt, braces, and trouser flies. His braces were still intact over his right shoulder and dangling behind him on the left, which let his trousers slide down his thin frame. He stood before me with his open shirtfront revealing his undershirt and the waistband of his trousers hanging low over his left hip.
I cleared my throat and swallowed. “You’ll have to undo the laces of those drawers so I can clean the wound,” I said in a dry voice. While his fingers worked at the laces, I busied myself with unnecessarily moving the vial of antiseptic from one side of the basin to the other. “Did he land any punches to your chest or back?” I moved the gauze back to the the other side of the basin.
Holmes huffed out a breath of derision. “No punches. He did land a knee but I assure you no ribs are broken. I would know if they were.”
“Well, I’m quite sure you would. But, please, allow me to be the judge of that,” I said facing him. He shrugged and looked at the gauze. I took in the sight of the ivory skin of his hip. The exposed crest of iliac and the taught line of his inguinal ligament looked as if they had been carved from marble. I swallowed down the hunger which surged up inside me and turned my focus to the wound. The cut was on the tensor fasciae latae, shallow, about three inches long, and had stopped bleeding freely. I was about to kneel again when I thought better of it, my body twitching at the mental image conjured of me on my knees before him. “Lay down so that I can clean the area,” I said instead.
He sat at the edge of the bed, hesitating a moment before laying back. I drew up the chair and dabbed at the cut with alcohol. I avoided looking at anything other than the red gash before me, ignoring the expanse of pale, muscled flesh visible between the line of his undershirt and waistband, the line of dark hair —“Well, the edges are smooth, not torn. It’s not a deep cut, but it will need a few stitches. Otherwise you’ll reopen it each time you move. Sit up and let me see to your ribs.”
Holmes did as I asked, wordlessly. He was a private person, probably resentful of my fussing and probing. I parted his shirt and placed a hand on either side of his chest, feeling his ribs and intercostal muscles through the thin fabric of his undershirt. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. I stared at the pile of books in the corner and asked him to breathe in, feeling his chest expand under my hands. I moved my hands lower, looking at his face for discomfort as he stared at the basin, drawing and releasing deep breaths. I could feel the air he exhaled ghost past my face.
“I think you’re right, none broken. Let me get the sutures set up,” I said turning to my bag.
“Really, Watson, is this necessary? I’d rather like to get some sleep if it’s all the same. I shall clean and bandage it. Such a small cut hardly deserves this much fuss.”
“Holmes, in my medical opinion it’s quite necessary. Every time you sit or stand you will continue opening it which could lead to infection. It won’t take but a moment. Just lie back.” He huffed another breath and lay staring at his ceiling, looking for all the world like a man being sent to his death. It occurred to me that he could be phobic of needles. I’d encountered solders who confessed to being more afraid of the stitching than the bullets which necessitated them. I traced the gash over his hip with the cotton wool again. “This will be quick,” I said, placing my fingers on either side of the torn flesh. His oblique muscles tightened and he tensed at the contact. I glanced up to find his warm gray eyes staring at my hands where I touched him.
I leaned closer, expertly running the needle in and out of his skin where I held it taught. I leaned closer still to bite at the suture, just to remove the needle so I could tie it off and Holmes tensed again and I heard a quick intake of breath. I took in the final results as I trimmed the ends of the knot. I fought the urge to run my hands over his flat stomach, his firm skin, his—“There you are,” I said turning to tidy my supplies. “We’ll snip them out in a few days but will need to keep a close eye on infection. I doubt the ruffian’s knife was any too clean. You’ll probably want to avoid your smalls for a few days so they don’t rub against your skin while it’s healing.” Good heavens, even my medical advice sound salacious to my mind.
“Thank you,” Holmes said rising and buttoning his trousers stiffly. “Good night, Doctor.”
“Good night,” I said, ashamed at how badly I wanted to linger in his room, how much I wanted to attend to him in other ways. I took myself to my room, took myself in hand, and fell into a torturous sleep where I dreamed of running my hands over my flatmate's bare flesh.
We met at the breakfast table, fully dressed and with my desires firmly under wraps. We greeted each other cordially, he responded to my questions that he was experiencing no pain or fever, and we discussed the telegram he had received from Scotland Yard. I averted my gaze when he licked jam from his finger. I could feel his gaze linger upon me as I spread butter upon my toast. Apart from this, everything was returned to normal in the bright light of day and I assured myself Holmes had detected nothing askance on my part last evening.
We carried on as usual in the following days. Whenever I inquired after the small wound, Holmes dismissed the subject as inconsequential. Indeed the only thing abnormal was the turn my dreams had taken. Whereas I had been haunted by images of war which would cause me to wake in a cold sweat, I now awoke to find myself feverish from the images of undressing him, touching him, taking him. Never before had I found trouble in conveying to an intended partner where my interest lay. Likewise, I had never encountered difficulty in gauging their interest in me. I had taken for granted that physical relations were a rather straightforward affair, at least when it came to initiating them. It was true that men and women had different ways of communicating their interest and after a casual toss some of them, mostly men, could behave quite differently afterwards. I supposed this was due to some feeling of embarrassment or self-reproach on their part, but I was never overly concerned. Seeing as how everyone had been a willing participant before and during, if they needed to put on a display of bravado or indifference afterwards, well, that was their affair. Somehow, I could not imagine displaying my interest to Holmes, nor could I envision him showing any interest in me. He remained an enigma, unlike anyone I had known before. Perhaps he was not interested in physical relations. Or perhaps he was not interested in them with someone like myself.
Holmes was at his chemical bench, frowning and peering through his microscope one afternoon. “When you finish with your experiment, let me have a look at those stitches. They should come out,” I suggested from behind my yellow-backed novel.
“I can remove them myself,” Holmes said without looking up. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Remove them yourself? Really, Holmes. It won’t take but a moment. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d removed my own stitches,” he said, eye still glued to the device. “I am usually the one to administer them, as well. You said yourself my medical knowledge was accurate, if unsystematic.”
I blew out a sigh of frustration that he would toss the embarrassing and recent incident of finding the half burned list in my face. It was my fascination with him which had led me to writing the damned list. I thanked my lucky stars I had not committed any other thoughts about him to paper. His attempts to evade my ministrations with his cool and detached manner further irked me.
“That may be,” I retorted, “but that was before you found yourself living with a doctor as a flatmate. Perhaps I should have listed among my traits that I am thorough with my patients and insist on seeing that they’ve healed for myself,” I huffed. The only response Holmes made was to hum a noncommittal noise of acknowledgment that I’d spoken, though he was probably too absorbed in his chemicals to repeat what I had said. I returned to my book.
What normal person removes their own stitches? The mystery around this man only stimulated my thoughts. I found my mind returning again and again to our next encounter. It gave me a little thrill at the thought of how he had avoided looking at me but how I had caught him watching me as he unbuttoned himself. I thought of how his stomach muscles had clenched when I touched him, how his skin had felt under my fingers, how I’d felt his breath on my cheek as he exhaled. I should have left the flat and taken a walk, found someone to blow off some steam with as I had intended a few days before. Instead, I fell asleep reading my book.
I was undoing his flies with my teeth. It was so easy and I wondered distantly why I’d never thought to try unbuttoning a wool placket with my mouth before. He was squirming beneath me, pushing up his hips in an attempt to gain friction and I laughed and nipped at his exposed hipbone, feeling the warmth of his skin as I bit and sucked at it. His trousers were gone and I was biting through the sutures, pulling the thread out with my teeth, feeling it slide free from his flesh, the pink seam raised and warm. I ran my tongue over it and heard him calling my name. I licked along the deep line of his inguinal ligament and moaned. His hand was in my hair and he called my name again.
I awoke with a start to Holmes’ voice behind the settee. “Watson? You were talking in your sleep. I thought you called out to me.” I blinked into the afternoon rays coming through the sitting room window and looked down, endlessly thankful that I was covered with a blanket and my aroused state was not clearly visible. Holmes returned to his bench but I could feel his eyes on me.
“Sorry about that. Must have dozed off… thank you for the blanket.”
“There’s a decided draft,” he said absently, turning back to his chemicals. It could have been the afternoon glow in the room, but I thought he colored slightly.
After dinner, I raised the topic again. Holmes had taken up his violin and was playing while staring out the window. He didn’t turn around when I asked if he’d like me to see to his stitches. I was beginning to become annoyed at how little regard he seemed to have for his body. It was true I had rather more than an ordinary interest in his body, but I was still a physician damn it, and his health was of importance to me.
“Holmes, did you hear me? I asked if you’d like me to remove your sutures? If you don’t remove them soon it will become increasingly difficult to do so and it could worsen the scar.” He turned to face me, without pausing his playing, a faint arch to his brow. He held my eye for a moment before turning away so that his dressing gown billowed out and his back was once again to me, the music swelling in volume and tempo, a lively and beautiful piece. He swayed slightly as he played and I regarding him, surrounded by the outpouring of emotion from his instrument. His pointedly ignoring me was the last straw. Really, the man could be so dramatic. So charmingly, disarmingly, dramatic.
I crossed the room to him in a few steps. “Holmes,” I addressed him from behind. He turned to face me, the violin dropping in tone and tempo to something almost breathtakingly soft. I regarded his deep gray eyes. The emotion they held was as complex as the man himself. They held intelligence, sadness with a touch of mischief, and something not unlike fondness. I could swear the air in the room changed around us, becoming thicker and warmer as we stood face to face. I hesitated only a moment before dropping to one knee. “Please, allow me,” I said, my hand on his hip, my eyes gazing up imploring. The violin stuttered and emitted a high-pitched whine.
He held my eyes and I realized then that I was caressing his hip, running my thumb back and forth over the wound below the wool of his trousers. He did not step away, did not speak, did not stop playing. The music turned deep and slow, drawing the hunger from me. I grasped him tighter, his gluteus yielding under my fingertips. He stepped closer pressing his hip against my cheek and his upper thigh against my chest. His eyes bore into mine and his tongue darted over his lips. I moved my hand to the waistband of his trousers. His eyes closed and the music seemed to soar over me.
I unbuttoned the flies of his trousers, pulling the hem of his shirt free. I unbuttoned the left side of his braces. His trousers slid down over his bare hip bone. The stitches looked like teeth outlined by the black suture thread. I pressed my mouth softly against the wound in a gentle kiss. I looked up into his heavy lidded eyes which watched me before tracing my tongue down the ridge of ligament and muscle under his iliac crest, gazing up to see the hunger in his eyes, black pools which had replaced the gray. The violin was still at his chin, humming a rhythmic atonal vibration like breathing where his distracted hand moved.
I placed my lips to the scar again and began licking and kissing my way across his abdominal wall to the line of dark hair. He was hot and hard pressed against the underside of my jaw. As I took him into my mouth there was a noise not unlike a gunshot and I pulled back, alarmed, to see the bow reduced to two fragments of wood and limp strands of horsehair in his hand. Holmes’ eyes were closed and his mouth slack. “Do not stop,” he said. I did not stop.
I believe myself to be rather accomplished at this particular tasking, and while I find the process enjoyable, performing it has never been a direct means to my own satisfaction other than perhaps ensuring my partner reciprocates. This was different. Whether it was the tortuous desire which had been building over the last week, the dizzying victory I had not expected, or that it was Holmes himself, I was not sure. I worked him with hand and mouth, finding myself overwrought and fumbling one handed with my own flies. When he reached his crisis, the look upon his face and the sound wrenched from his throat were enough to pull me right over the brink with him. I wiped my mouth with the edge of the handkerchief I had located just in time, stunned at what had just taken place, and trying to bring my mind back from the heights of ecstasy to the present.
Holmes sank to his knees, finally releasing his violin and the broken bow. He grasped my face and studied it with such intensity and for so long that I began to feel unsure of how I should respond. He searched my face as if he was unable to believe what he held in his grasp. Holmes is so unlike every other man I have known that I wondered at his reaction to this turn of events. I had seen all manner of reactions which men may affect after such an encounter — the worst of which were feigned disgust or disinterest. But he surprised me by leaning in to kiss me, awkward but roughly, betraying that his passion remained unsated He pulled back to gaze at me again, curiously, and dropped his hands from my face to my waistcoat buttons.
“Let me.”
“There is no need.”
“I should very much like to have you.” he said, his hand moving under my waistcoat to my side.
I shook my head and smiled. “No, I mean, there really is no need. It is…already taken care of.”
He stared at me hard, almost glaring. “Next time,” he said firmly.
I traced my thumb over the sutures, which smiled up at me under the hem of his shirt. “These do still need to come out, you know,” I said, feeling unbalanced by the intensity of his gaze and his words.
“Indeed. They’ve begun to itch,” he said rising and offering his hand to assist me to stand. Wordlessly I followed him to his room, grabbing my bag upon the way. He lay in the middle of the double bed and I sat beside him, pushing his shirt hem up. He raised himself onto his elbows to watch me work.
“Why were you so reluctant to let me remove them,” I asked without looking up.
He blew out a huff of breath. “Really, Doctor, you cannot deduce?”
I picked at a stubborn area with my forceps where the skin had formed over the thread. “Can you not just humor me and tell me?” I asked, glancing up to where he watched me.
“Did you really suppose that you were the only one so affected after our last encounter? I could hardly stand the thought of having you so close, of having to lay here unable to touch you, and not knowing how to initiate…how to convey…”
I blinked up at him, wholly surprised.
“Knowledge of seduction: Nil,” he said with a wry smirk and we both laughed, the awkward tension dissolving.
I ran my hand over the raised line and across his taught abdomen. “There. It will leave a scar, I’m afraid.”
“Good. I should like that. It was worth a wound.”
I leaned in to kiss the mark again, letting my hand trace up his obliques. “I shall like it as well then, as a reminder,” I crawled up beside him so that my face hovered over his, “of how this came to be.” I kissed him and felt his wiry arm around my back, pulling me against him. We were lost for some time in kissing and fighting buttons, collars, ties, and cuffs.
As he helped to finally free me of my shirt, he raised himself up onto one elbow to study my wrecked shoulder. He scrutinized it with the care I had only witnessed him give to a corpse, as if attempting to memorize every feature. He traced the raised lines of mended flesh with his long pale finger before leaning in to kiss the various peaks and valleys where the flesh rippled. “And this… this is my reminder of how this came to be. Of how you came to be here.” He pressed his lips once more to the mottled skin, whispering what sounded like “thank you,” although I could not be sure. “And now, Doctor, I have submitted myself to your care. I would very much appreciate if you would submit yourself to mine.”
“Always,” I responded, absorbed by the sight of so much of his pale skin before me, the feel of my hands running up his firm pectoralis, the smell of his skin and shaving soap. I said it without consideration, distracted by the sensations of him, but I could not miss the momentary pause of his hands and secret smile which flashed across his face.
“Quite so,” he said, eyes twinkling, as he began kissing his way down my sternum.
The next morning, the sight of the broken bow and discarded fiddle greeted me when I left his room.
“I am sorry about your bow,” I said. “I should miss hearing you play today.”
He waved the statement away with his slender hand. “It was quite inferior and brittle. And I have no arguments with the cause of its destruction,” he flashed a quick smile. “The Stradivarius deserves a quality bow and I’ve been meaning to see about about a new one for some time. Perhaps you’d care for a stroll this afternoon? You could accompany me to the luthiers to purchase one which shall outlive us both.”
“Having been the cause for the end of your last bow, I cannot refuse such an invitation,” I replied.
“Excellent! I shall endeavor to make my performance worth of yours, my dear Watson,” he said with a wink.