A DOGGED MEMORY
by elfin

Part Eight - Baker Street


"When my parents ascertained how difficult two children were going to
be to bring up, I was sent away."

We were seated next to the burning fire in Henry's room.

Our ward was sleeping under the sedative Mortimer had administered
and, although his wounds were deep, he was strong and would in time
make a full recovery.

Holmes was leaning forward in his chair, a glass of brandy and a
cigarette balanced elegantly in one trembling hand.  Absently, he
played my fingers in his other, alternatively holding and stroking them.

My left arm hung in a sling, a shot of morphine having freed me from
the blazing pain.  Holmes had needed me close and I had pulled my
chair up next to his.

I hadn't mentioned what I'd seen through the window of Merripit House,
but somehow he'd known.  "Let me explain," he'd begged me, and I'd nodded.

"A boarding school is no place for a boy of a shy disposition.  I was
too thin, too nervous, too different.  And I attracted the wrong kind
of attention.  I never knew the name of the boy who made every moment
of my life into a living hell."  He looked away into the fire.  "Not
until your first report from Baskerville Hall did I have a name."

I squeezed his fingers.  "Jack Stapleton."

"Jonathan Baskerville."

"I'm so sorry, Holmes."  It seemed utterly inadequate.

"He'd remained obsessed with me, following my career until once again
our paths crossed."  And crossed they had.  "He knew more now.  He
craved power over people.  He had that power over Beryl Stapleton, he
had it over the Baskerville family and he wanted it over me."

It was the closest he'd ever come, I believe, to baring his soul to
anyone.  I was humbled, honoured, and at the same time I don't think
I've ever loved him more than at the moment.

Before I could find the words with which to express myself, Henry
stirred upon the bed.

Holmes lifted my hand and touched my fingers to his lips.  "Go to
him," he told me quietly, "I shall retire to bed."

Immediately, I was worried by his words.  "Holmes...."

But he smiled gently.  "Do not concern yourself.  By this time
tomorrow we will be safely home in Baker Street, and I shall give you
your Christmas gift."

I nodded and with one long look he rose from his chair.


I barely slept that night.  I remained seated at Henry's bedside,
hushing him when memories of his ordeal encroached upon his sleep.
Despite his obvious discomfort, I could not bring myself to move to
the bed.

Holmes, who for so long had had my loyalty and devotion, had laid
claim to something else within me, something that now belonged to him
and him alone.

I imagined that I had made some silent vow to him, betrothed myself to
him by some means, and the idea did not frighten me at all.  Indeed, I
was invigorated by it.  Whatever the rest of society thought of men
who loved men, I knew my feelings to be genuine and good.

~~~

They say that all men must find their own peace on this earth.

The morning after our return to Baker Street, I found my peace, and my
own slice of heaven.

I woke in a strange bed.  Holmes' slim form was pressed up against me,
spooned to my back.  One of his arms was tucked between us, the other
raised above his head, his hand on my hair.

His fingers were playing in the loose dark curls upon my head, small,
soothing strokes that at once lulled and excited me.

The previous evening we'd dined at Marcini's with thoughts toward the
theatre and Holmes' box for Les Huguenots.  But such looks passed
between us at dinner, as the conversation faded, and a rare tension
built between us, so that when the bill was paid, we headed back to
Baker Street without a word of consent required.

Mrs Hudson had been so kind as to light the fires in our rooms, and it
was good to come home to that warmth and comfort when outside it was
threatening snow.  But better than the heat of the flames was the heat
of our bodies as we pressed together behind the locked door of his
bedroom.


Opening my eyes, I felt Holmes' lips touch my bare shoulder, followed
in a moment by the nip of his teeth and another, swift, kiss.

"Good morning, Holmes," I murmured, happy beyond belief.

He chuckled deeply, "You may, under these circumstances I'm sure, call
me Sherlock."

"Sherlock."  The name did feel good on my lips.

He drew his arm from between us and wrapped it around my waist,
bringing us closer.  I felt his early-morning erection press against
my rear, sliding to rest along the indent of my cheeks.

As erotic as the sensation was, it brought to mind niggling worries
and concerns regarding what we were doing, the relationship we had
entered into with such fervour.

"This is risky for us, isn't it, dangerous even?" I asked him
pointlessly.  For he nodded.  But before I could continue, I felt him
move, push himself up on one elbow behind me, and rest his chin on my
shoulder.

"There are more pertinent questions, John.  For one, how much more
risky is it for us to lie here in each other's arms than it is for us
to break into the house of a suspected blackmailer to recover the
vital evidence?  How much more dangerous is it than running over a
moor in the dead of night in pursuit of a murderous hound?  But more
than anything, I must ask, do you believe this to be worth it?"

Turning in his embrace, I faced him.  His grey eyes were warm, the
beloved features smiling for me alone.

"You are worth all the dangers this world could throw at us," I told
him.  "For you I willingly risk my career and my life."

He smiled at me, his parted lips drawing my attention.  "I doubt
either sacrifice will be needed if we are careful," he reassured me.
I glanced up and noted that his eyes were on my mouth as mine had been
on his.  Leaning in, I kissed him.

"I love you," I murmured, lips still touching his.

"And I you, John, although it will take time before I'm used to this.
  You of all people know how I lack the proper emotional maturity for
a man of my considerable years."

He was teasing me, in his own inimitable way.  I couldn't resist
teasing back, using my fingers on his chest and my teeth on his neck.

Laughing gently, he wrapped one leg over my thigh as I pushed a knee
between his.  Our erections were brought together in an erotic duel
and I delighted in his little moan of pleasure.

"Ah, John," his hands stroked over my head and shoulders, down my
back.  He was more confident than he'd been the first time.  Never,
he'd admitted, had he known a man or a woman in such intimate a
fashion.  I hadn't imagined that he had, the thought had seemed too
incredible somehow.  But he'd been taken advantage of many times in
his younger life that it was up to me to convince him that love and
consent made all the difference.

"You bring me alive, John," he whispered as I sucked on the pink nubs
of his nipples.  I raised my head, flicking the tip of my tongue over
the curve of his lips, indulging in the taste of him.

We rubbed our lengths against one another with feline grace.  The
sheer pleasure of being so close to him enough to push me toward my
own climax but I needed to take him with me when I fell.

Holmes' orgasm last night had not been his first, but it had been the
first time someone else had driven him to that particular edge.  It
had left him defenceless and vulnerable, endearing him to me all the
more, if that were possible.

I knew that for a time it would be like a drug to him.  It would be my
pleasure and my honour to give him all that he needed until he was as
sated as I.

He drove his tongue into my mouth, one hand on my back, one venturing
nervously down to the swell of my cheeks, although not yet brave
enough to touch me there so blatantly.

Reaching between us, I wrapped my fingers around our phalluses,
ensuring my palm touched us both.  He groaned, deep in his throat, and
brought his fingers to touch my hand as if to prevent me from carrying
out my intentions.  But as I began to pump us both thoroughly, his
fingers simply rested against mine, not stopping me, not assisting me.

I watched him steadily, the emotions that turned his expression, his
eyes when they opened to meet him.  He is so beautiful.

His orgasm shook him as it had the night before.  His fingers tensed
against mine, his palm flat on my back.  My own seed mixed with his as
I shuddered against him.

It wiped us out, and as I collapsed on to my back I tugged at him to
move with me.

He wrapped himself around me, his head on my shoulder, our stomachs
sticky with semen and sweat.

I think that he had, for a long time, thought those fluids things to
be ashamed of.  It would take time before he accepted without needing
the reassurance of my post-coital embrace.

~~~

"Finished, Watson?"

I start, unaware that he's been standing behind me.

"Almost."

"We shall deliver Sir Henry's copy to him in person I think."

I smile across at him as he drops into his chair by the fire.  Henry
is in London taking a break from the loneliness of the moor.  He is
unsure now whether he will remain at the Hall.  Holmes and I have
promised to introduce him to London life.

As for Holmes and I, society already believes us inseparable and we
have done nothing to change that opinion.  I have my marriage behind
me, ended as it did in such sad circumstances.  My return to Baker
Street was natural, for it had once been my home and I was loathe to
stay in the house that Mary and I had shared and that held so many
memories for me.

Holmes and I share rooms, and that was all.  I'd proven myself to
enjoy the company and love of women, and he was well known for his
criticism of affairs of the heart.

We love directly under the noses of those who would damage us, and
they do not see.  They do not want to see.

He lights a cigarette and regards me through the plume of smoke he
exhales.  My attention is drawn to his lips as he parts them to
inhale.  He notices my regard, of course, and as he flicks the ash
into his abandoned glass the tip of his tongue peeks out.

"Am I as bad for your concentration as you are for mine?" he quizzed
me, amused.

"Definitely."  I hope no one sees these smiles that pass between us.
They're positively obscene.

~~~

A few weeks ago, Merripit House was sold to a young man whose family
made their money in farming.  He himself had apparently been educated
in Oxford, pushed by his parents to do something else with his life.
To that end he'd travelled much of the world, had made certain
discoveries by which he'd amassed his own small fortune and was now
happy to settle for a time on Dartmoor.

Tonight we dine with Henry and his new friend.  It is their first
night in London, and Henry is excited for us to meet this man, and for
him to make our acquaintance.

"We should soon be making a move," Holmes states from the hall behind me.

I turn as he steps into the lounge.  We aren't dining at any of our
usual haunts tonight, but somewhere suggested to us by a close and
trusted friend.  Therefore, he's dressed different to the norm, in a
black suit with a black silk shirt and a dash of gold at his wrists.
I raise my eyebrows and he smiles mischievously.

"I think we might be late," I inform him casually.

And I lay my pen down....


fin
elfin