A DOGGED MEMORY
by elfin

Part Seven - An Eventful Christmas Day


The events that took place on December 25th 1901 are well documented.
  But there are details not recorded in any other account and I shall
endeavour to give these facts here.

We rose early to catch the milk train.  I'd slept in Henry's room,
knowing from the flicker of gaslight coming from under my own room's
door the previous night that he was waiting for me in my bed.  His
mattress truly was impossible but I can't attribute my sleepless night
to my discomfort.  I'd held Holmes in my arms, tasted him on my lips,
and now every possibility had been freed in my mind.

I imagined lying naked with him.  I wondered about the texture of his
skin and the weight of his genitals.  Soon enough I would find out,
and the anticipation was like fine electricity over my nerves.

Oddly the thought with which I finally fell asleep was the same one
that was in my mind when I woke.  How would the sound of his name feel
on my lips?  Sherlock...

"I'm happy for you, John."  I turned at the sound of Henry's voice.
He was standing at the top of the stairs, and although my emerging
from his room told him nothing, the mere fact I that hadn't joined him
in my bed told him too much.

"Henry...."  I couldn't lie to him, he meant too much to me.  "I
hadn't planned this."  Guilt and apology must have shown on my have,
for he leaned forward and silenced me with a chaste kiss.

"I just want to see you happy.  I know where I stood when I got into
this with you.  No hard feelings, John.  He's a lucky man."

"It really isn't what you think."

Henry smiled, kissed me again, and returned to my room.  It was very
early.

~~~

To Holmes, Christmas Day has always meant very little.  But that
morning was special, no matter the date, and we were alone on the
train which was no surprise.

We sat opposite each other on the narrow seats, watching the sunrise
over the passing countryside.  When I happened to glance at my
companion, I saw that there was a smile of amusement on his face.

"What has you so upbeat this morning, Holmes?"

He leaned forward for a moment, "I would have thought that was
obvious."  As he sat back, I might have blushed.  "I was just thinking
about Stapleton's plans to use his wife to draw Sir Henry's affections
as she had his uncle's."

For a moment or two, I didn't grasp what amused him so about a man
verily prostituting his wife in order to seduce another man.

"Come, Watson," Holmes' tone was affectionate, and maybe it was that
which prompted the revelation.

"Ah!"

"Ah, indeed.  How frustrated Stapleton must be that Sir Henry hasn't
looked twice at the beautiful woman practically throwing herself at
his feet!"  He chuckled.  "For someone far more worthy of his
attention had already caught Sir Henry's eye."

Slowly he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took my cold hands
in his own.

"I do have a gift for you, Watson," he told me quietly.  "But
unfortunately it's back at Baker Street."  He'd already informed me
that we were alighting at Exeter, and not London as he'd told Henry.

Smiling, I rubbed his fingers.  "I too, Holmes.  We shall have our own
Christmas once this is over."

It was odd, and yet the same time so very natural, to have this
freedom to touch him.

"I'm aware that I'm putting Sir Henry in some danger," he admitted
after a short silence, looking away.  "I don't want you to think it's
due to any hint of the green-eyed beast you might have suspected me of."

I frowned.  "It wouldn't have crossed my mind, dear fellow."

He glanced up, large eyes meeting my own, a wry smile touching his
lips.  "You put an undeserved amount of trust in me, John."

My Christian name spoken in his rich tones was music to my ears.  His
low murmur sent a frisson of heat down my spine and into my groin.

"Nonsense," I managed, trying to ignore the stirrings of my manhood.
I wanted so much to lean across and kiss him, to taste him again.

Smiling, squeezing my fingers once more, he let go and sat back.

A few minutes later, the train pulled into the station at Exeter, and
Lestrade met us, muttering about the fact that it was Christmas Day.
I was more than aware.  I had the best Christmas present any man could
ever ask for.

Not to be able to shout it from the rooftops would, I knew, slowly
drive me insane.

~~~

When we at last reached Merripit House, around eight that night, all
was quiet.  The lights and shadows at the windows told us that there
were at least two people in the dining room, and the kitchen had been
previously occupied, now empty.

Holmes had already given Lestrade and I our instructions.  We were to
wait until Sir Henry started off across the moor.  Despite arriving on
horseback, he would leave on foot, Stapleton would make sure of it.
We were then to wait and watch.  He didn't explain exactly what he
expected to happen, but he told us that we should be ready to give
chase after something large and fast.  We were to be swift with our
pistols, for we should be expecting to end the life of whatever had
been the cause of Sir Charles' death.

These vague details did nothing to placate Lestrade, and I'm sure that
had it not been for the great yet grudging respect he had for Holmes,
he'd have left us there out on the moor.

I'd enjoyed warmer and undoubtedly more comfortable Christmas nights,
but nothing, it seemed, could dampen my spirits.

But when the low, thick fog began to roll in, my concerns arose for
Henry's safety.  What protection would we be if we could not see our
foe?  I admit that I did get angry.  Eventually, I wanted to end the
façade and get my friend out of Stapleton's reach.  I still wasn't
sure what I'd seen at the window of Merripit House on the night of the
séance, but as the fog drew closer, I started to get scared at the
prospect of using Henry as bait.

My determination to end the waiting, Holmes reaching for me and my
subsequent demand that he take his hands from me all surprised him,
shocked him a little I think, for later he was withdrawn from me.

However, that reaction might have had nothing to do with me.  And
everything to do with Stapleton.

In my previous account, I recorded that it was Holmes and I who went
after the horror that sprang out of the darkness and sped passed us
before we could gather our wits.

In actual fact, Lestrade and I gave chase.  It was we who found Henry
torn and bleeding in the maw of that huge animal.  We stood like
statues and stared until our lives were in as much danger as our
sanity before firing several times into the emasculated body of the
unnatural beast that leapt at us from Henry's side.

Henry needed urgent medical attention, but all I could think about,
having seen the hound, was the man who had brought it to such a state.
  In the wake of the horror, the memory of Stapleton forcing himself
on my dear Holmes the night of the party flashed into my mind.  I
needed to get back to him just as desperately as I needed to
administer to Henry's wounds, and I was torn.

My first duty is always to my patient, and I helped Lestrade carry the
unconscious man back to Baskerville Hall.  I had Barrymore send for Dr
Mortimer and tended to Henry until Mortimer arrived.  Only then did I
have Perkins saddle me a horse and I rode hard back to Merripit House.

I know now all of what happened between Stapleton and Holmes, not just
that night but many years ago.  But all I knew at the time was what I
could see through the kitchen window at the side of the house as I
approached at a canter.

I swung down from the horse, in my anger and concern leaving him
standing there, untethered.  For a moment I took in the scene through
the window.

There were clear signs of a struggle; items spilt upon the table,
crockery broken over the tiled floor.  Stapleton had Holmes in an arm
lock, his face and chest pressed against the far wall.  One
long-fingered hand was wrapped threateningly around the top of Holmes'
throat, up under his chin.  The other... the other was thrust vulgarly
into the front of his dark trousers.

Holmes was fighting to loose himself, but Stapleton was taller and his
madness gave him strength.  I could see the twisted expression as he
forced Holmes to endure the indignity of the uninvited touch.  He was
grinning, spitting words from between clenched teeth.

Incensed, I looked around for a distraction and found a small pile of
rubble just under the window.  Taking aim, I moved out of sight and
fired a single bullet into the bricks and dirt.  A moment's pause, and
then I heard an almighty clatter from inside.

Rushing up the stone steps and around to the front door, I put my
shoulder to the heavy wooden panel and almost succeeded in dislocating
it.  Luckily, the lock gave way and I ran inside, taking the stairs
two at a time down to the kitchen.

My plan had worked.  The shot had surprised Stapleton and Holmes had
managed to push him away.  They were struggling against one another on
the other side of the table.

"Take your hands off him!"  I shouted the same words I'd uttered at
Holmes out in the murk of the fog.  The fighting ceased, more out of
surprise than any perceived threat.  But Stapleton caught sight of my
gun and, understanding that I wouldn't shoot, he came at me with more
brutality than I'd ever seen on one face.

"Watson!"

Holmes's cry was one of warning.  I didn't see it coming.

Stapleton had wrestled my revolver from my grip and had turned it on
me.  In the moment after my name was called, a second shot rang out
and I felt a searing pain in my left shoulder.

I was shot!

I staggered back, knowing only a fire in my arm until Holmes' embrace
was around me and I was being lowered to the floor, by back against
the cold wall.

"Oh God, Watson, no...."

In his voice I could hear so much fear that I was moved beyond the
pain.  The bullet had wounded me, but it was not an instantly fatal
injury.  Stapleton though had gone.  I refused to let him win.

"Go after him!" I croaked, trying to sound as convincing as I could.
Holmes' hand was on my right shoulder, his other against my chest.  He
was shaking his head, unwilling to leave me.  "I'm all right," I
attempted to reassure him.  "Go."

Still he hesitated.

I blame it now on the fever setting in, but I could see no other way.
  Leaning forward, the movement causing me blinding pain but paying it
no heed, I kissed him fully on the lips.

"Now go."

Sweeping his hand once over my hair, he told me, in no uncertain
terms, that he loved me.  I could see in the depths of his grey eyes
that he meant it, and I was stunned.

Hoping I was smiling, I said, "I love you too!  Now go!"


I huddled against the wall for what I think was only a minute or two.
  I closed my eyes, feeling my body start to shut down, the pain of
the shot, the shock of blood loss too much for it.  I started to think
about Holmes, about the soft kiss of his lips and the hard warmth of
his body.  He had gone after an armed man who knew the moors better
than anyone, who knew where to tread and where to avoid, where to hide
and where to run.

Stapleton was armed with both weapon and knowledge.

A sudden thought roused me enough so that I struggled to my feet,
using my weight against the wall to push myself up.

I wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes die by my revolver!

I staggered up the stairs and out of the house, and faced with the
moor all around me I realised that I had no clue of which direction
Stapleton might have run.

I was at a loss, and about to set off toward Baskerville Hall, when I
heard a shout of barely masked terror.

I ran then, my strength bolstered by thoughts of losing Holmes for a
second and more permanent time.  They hadn't gone far, and I saw with
horror the situation that had befallen him.

He was trapped in a peat bog, already sucked down to his armpits.  His
arms were raised, and he was struggling to free himself but his
movements were severely restricted and his breath was already being
crushed from his lungs under the intense pressure.

But his death wasn't to come from suffocation.  Stapleton was crouched
at the edge of the bog, my gun in his hand, aimed at Holmes' head.

I ran, as fast and as sure as my legs would take me.  As I passed the
low branches of the tree under which Stapleton was bent, I reached up
for them.  I couldn't suppress a howl of agony as the action caused a
slicing pain in my left shoulder, but it was too late for Stapleton to
react.  My body collided with his back and he toppled over, into the
same bog that held Holmes in its deadly grip.

It was the most horrid of deaths.  His arms were caught at the
beginning, his face only inches from the thick, deep puddle of mud.
He raged like the devil against the unyielding suction, but within
seconds he was gone to one of nature's tombs.

My jacket was all I had by way of a rope.  I threw it out, relieved
when Holmes grabbed the other sleeve, and together we inched him to
safety.  His breaths were wheezing, his only utterances rough groans,
until he was free of the bog.

He looked up at me, relief mapped across his striking features, and
said, "Three cheers for Saville Row."

Had I the strength, I would have laughed.

~~~

fin part seven
elfin



Thanks LOADS to Carman for the late-night beta