A Victorian Rave?
by LaDine, revised and
corrected by Susannah Shepherd
It was extremely painful
for me to see the needle, resting after use, on the table of Holmes's chamber
at Musgrave mansion. We had come, or so thought I, to escape the routine of the
absence of work, to run away from this particular and disastrous habit towards
which Holmes had a tendency when he felt vacuous.
I had, innocently but
maliciously too, entered his room to obtain (just for a while, certainly) the
notes he had taken of his previous cases, those which he had carefully hidden
from me all that time. Since I knew about their existence, I had desired to
consult them, nevertheless, Holmes had been irrationally protective towards
these notes.
Before I took notice of
the dangerous needle, I had heard him singing while he was preparing himself
for supper. I almost regretted my intention then, until I sat before the trunk,
and saw the object. I felt sad, overwhelmed and worried, and I could hardly
rise and get out of the room.
All through the evening
I tried to be a good guest to Musgrave, who was undoubtedly enjoying our
company, and to observe my friend's unnatural behaviour, the result of mixing
cocaine and alcohol. He appeared strangely amused, and although I secretly
liked seeing him in this mood, I was also concerned about him. His remarks were
short, quick and humorous, and his gaze was penetrating, as if he could see our
innermost thoughts. Almost everything seemed to be funny to him that night.
When Brunton came in
again to refill our glasses with some more brandy, and he offered it to Holmes,
I considered the possibility of taking away the glass from him. I was relieved
when I heard him decline. Holmes fixed his eyes on the butler, then he rose,
and followed him as if he wished to see inside him, so intense was his gaze. He
paced the room as if there were nobody else there, until I came near glaring at
him with no very friendly eyes, trying in vain to get a bit of his attention.
Those were difficult moments, for Musgrave was addressing me and I had to
answer him, but I was unable to take my eyes off Holmes. He went to the
fireplace and reclined his forehead on his hand, I could not say whether dizzy,
terribly amused, or simply tired.
When Brunton finally
went out of the room, Holmes exploded into laughter, and Musgrave and I
followed him, so infectious was his laugh. I started to feel light-headed, less
anxious, and I realised that I was somehow indulging myself with the brandy.
The smoke around us, the warmth of the flames and the taste of brandy in my
mouth were hypnotising me, and giving me too some kind of sweet unconsciousness
and pleasure.
As we kept on talking,
the whole room became hazy and I thought no more about the duties of
friendship. I was enjoying the evening and the sight of Holmes in that state,
without any feeling of guilt this time. I even suggested to myself that I might
take advantage of the situation and to try to get what I wanted from Holmes. I
knew how much he liked being praised, so I chose this way to make it easy. To
my surprise, flattery was not useful this time, as Holmes was not at all
unaware of my real intentions.
"So my dear Watson
is trying to cajole me by flattering me in the most impudent manner I have ever
seen! My dear friend, whom I used to trust, is trying to deceive me!" he
said mockingly. I could not but smile shamelessly at this.
"I was only teasing
you," I lied.
"Of course you
were. You know me well enough, don’t you?" said he, leaning on the sofa.
If I (and he) had been someone else, I would have thought he was flirting. He
certainly was Holmes, and I, Watson.
"I beg your pardon,
but I don’t know what you are talking about." Musgrave interrupted.
"Our dear Watson
was pretending to flatter me in order to get from me some notes I have from my
first cases. That's all, isn't it, Watson?" he asked, grinning this time.
"That's right, I
suppose." I did not know what Holmes was referring to with this question,
but I was really enjoying the game.
"That's it. Any
more questions, Musgrave? Any comment, perhaps?" Musgrave seemed to be a
little baffled. Nonetheless, he smiled to us both.
"You're room-mattes
after all! It's difficult to join in a private joke," he said at last.
"Private! I'm not
sure you know the word, Watson. It means 'personal, secret, not to be shared
with others'. Would you care to include it in your vocabulary?", he asked
me, mocking me again.
"Room-mattes,
Holmes. Did you know we were that? It means that we *share* a home, expenses,
time... and some other things, sometimes *dangerous* things," I answered,
smiling. "That often implies confidence. Do you know this word?" It
was certainly a delightful comedy.
"What kind of
*dangerous* things, Watson? And, what kind of confidence?" I did not know
then how long I could continue that conversation, and neither could I foresee
how far it would lead. All I knew was that Holmes and I were having a little,
friendly quarrel.
"Sometimes...
illegal ones," I answered, calmly, to his first question.
"That's enough!
That's enough, gentlemen, for me, at least." Musgrave interrupted again,
laughing. "I'm going to bed. You may stay here, if you wish. I hope not to
find you harmed, doctor, tomorrow morning. I know Holmes' fists. Good night,
gentlemen." And he went out of the parlour.
Holmes and I remained
there in silence for a few long minutes. My friend was leaning on the sofa,
smoking a cigarette, languidly, and contemplating the fire. Then, he turned his
head a little to look at me.
"What kind of
confidence, Watson?" He was not mocking me now.
The heat from the fire
was at this point unbearable. The whole room was dense, suffocating, and I
could not swear that the flush of my face and, the flush of my friend's own
face, were only due to the flames, the smoky fog, or the alcohol.
"I should be much
obliged to you, if you would be kind enough to show me your documents," I
requested, in a polite manner, inappropriate to us most of the time.
"What kind of
confidence?" He asked one more time. He started to smile, steadily fixing
his eyes on mine, making the ambiguous atmosphere return to the rarefied air.
"You trust
me." I paused. "And I trust you."
"You desire to see
my notes, don't you?" He was almost murmuring, his voice so low and so
sweet. I nodded, slowly.
"Do you hope to
find them... interesting?"
"I find all of your
cases interesting. You already know that." And I could not help adding,
"You're a most interesting man, Holmes."
"Flattering me
again, Watson? I see you are indeed aroused by the idea of consulting
them," he paused to light a cigarette. "What would you do for these
poor notes of mine, Watson?"
I was resolved in
getting them, an obsessive idea for I, somehow had wanted it to be so. I sighed
and swallowed.
"What do you want
me to do?", asked I.
"I’m not sure,
Watson. I..." He paused. Then, he gave a wicked grin. "May I suggest
that we go to my room to discuss it further?" His appearance was as
self-confident as it always was, but I could hear his voice trembling a little.
Could it be that he was frightened too?
When we entered his
bedroom I found it warm, but perhaps the contrast between the claustrophobic
parlour and the clean air of the room made me shiver.
"Are you cold
Watson?"
"I’m fine, thanks,
Holmes" But I noticed he was shivering too. He stopped in front of his
trunk, the one which had brought us here. He sat on it casually, and looked up
from his feet smiling at me weakly.
"I hope you will be
reasonable in your request." I said. Holmes turned his head to the table,
and handled a little bottle.
"What about... join
me in this, Watson? I would be delighted to see you under its effects. Maybe
not? Of course, you look well enough for tonight. And if you... Could you...
inject me, Watson? Would you do it for me?", he requested, rubbing his
fingers lightly over the bottle’s surface.
My face turned serious as I recovered some of
my concern."Are you really asking me to do that? It would be... extremely
difficult for me, Holmes." I said that sadly, but sweetly.
"Would you mind
lighting a cigarette for me instead, Watson? Would it be asking too much?"
As an answer, I picked up a cigarette from Holmes’s case, put it between my
lips and lit it. I exhaled the smoke slowly, as I came closer to my friend, who
was still sitting on his trunk, with the cigarette between my fingers. Holmes
leaned his head to meet my hand and took the cigarette touching my fingertips
softly with his lips. I did not withdraw then, holding it while Holmes inhaled
the smoke. He leaned back his head, letting the cigarette rest between my
fingers. Looking at me shyly, he asked,
"Would you like to
share it with me, Watson?" The sound of my name in his voice seemed to be
constant that night. I raised my hand to my lips and felt the cigarette lightly
wet by Holmes's saliva. It was a weird sensation, which flowed round my whole
body like a wave. We remained there, gently covered with the smoke of our
cigarette, without speaking, sharing our breath and moisture. When we finished
it, Holmes' voice demanded something more.
"It has not been a
high price, has it? I think I'm right if I request a little more." His
eyes were as bright as they had been in the evening. Will you pick up one of
those sweets from that box?. Musgrave has always been a kind of addict to
them."
I led myself to the box
at which he had pointed, and opened it, finding inside a large amount of
sweets. I rested my hand on the table for a few moments, trying to collect
myself, while I was feeling the gaze of Holmes fixed on the back of my head.
Although his tone with me was soft, almost weak, the remains of his masterful manner
were still present and, how weird it seemed to me this time! I was obeying him
voluntarily, playing with him, allowing him to go on further. Knowing then, in
front of the table, how far I would be disposed to go. We had been
interchanging the leading role the whole night, encouraging one another to
that... sensuous, puzzling, self-contradictory laissez-faire approach.
Startled by this thought, trembling, I picked up two of those sweets, and
turned to him.
He was still looking at
me, his pupils dilated. The time I had been standing with my back to him seemed
to have weakened his last careless tone of command.
"Put it into your
mouth and... " he paused. His voice was almost a sigh. "Come here,
please, Watson, come... closer."
I obeyed slowly, and
then I resolutely approached him, trying not to show any shadow of my own
weakness. I could see he was in that very moment the frightened one. I was
standing there, only a few inches from him, always sitting on his trunk, his
head looking upwards at me.
"Now, you are going
to ask for it, aren’t you? You certainly desire to taste it, do you?" I
was looking downwards at him. I asked that seriously, letting escape from me
all the disturbed tension that I was feeling. I was not intending to be rude
and hostile at all, but in that closeness, my mind was reacting against my
body. That was not the way. Whatever was going to happen, I should not miss the
opportunity of seeking to discover his emotions.
Hearing this from me
made him tremble, as his cheeks turned suddenly pale. The explicit awareness
took him by surprise, and made him look faint. He bowed his head and I could
see his right hand shaking half-way to his forehead.
"It's absurd,
absurd, I... I'm... exhausted," he whispered. I bent down then, and placed
my hands on his shoulders, holding him tightly.
His eyes were still
closed when I started to speak."My dear friend, are you all right?"
asked I, in my sweetest manner, as I allowed my hand to caress his face softly,
tilting his chin upwards. "We are already room-mates, after all, aren’t
we? You... trust me, Holmes, do you remember that? Are you... lacking
confidence, my friend? I trust you, too." I smiled, and saw how he opened
his eyes to look at me, sadly and tenderly. "So you don’t desire to go on
with this...," I smiled openly, "*illegal thing*?" He chuckled
first, and then, shyly, he smiled at me. I took the other sweet between my
fingers, and carefully put it into his mouth, feeling again his lips in my
skin. Slowly, he raised one hand and held my arm, peering at my eyes with that
tenderness which I had glimpsed only a few times.
"May I... touch
you, Holmes?" I begged, failing to keep the leading role after that. I
brushed my fingers softly across his cheek. A sudden shiver seemed to run
through his body, and then he caught my hand. He paused, and asked,
"My dear fellow,
don’t you think it would have been easier if we had continued the game?"
Apart from the content of his question, that
was again the very Holmes I knew. His friendly grey eyes were brightening warmly
and, for an instant, I felt back at home. I smiled at him again, enjoying as
never the opportunity of sharing with him each moment of our intimate
friendship.
"I’m not sure how
it is going to develop, but I prefer this to that, Holmes." He smiled.
"You know I’m not
the only eccentric one of Baker Street, Watson. We’re indeed a nice
couple!" He rubbed his hand on my arm.
We were there, looking
at each other, but both of us unable to take the decision. Finally, Holmes did.
He leaned forward a little, paused, and went on to place a chaste and almost
imperceptible kiss on my cheek. I slid my hand around his neck to the back of
his head and leaned my forehead on his chin. Then, I dared to touch his lips
slightly with mine. That simple gesture was to me in that moment the most
amazing thing I had ever made. I had kissed my friend and colleague Mr.
Sherlock Holmes on the lips. His response was both inexpert and warm, for he
pressed his mouth against mine tightly, as he leaned forward even more.
The arousal of the
evening rekindled vigorously, and we were trapped in a burning moment of lust
and passion, in which I felt the physical needs of Holmes as he knelt down and
pressed his upper body against mine. The awareness of his urgency only
exacerbated my own desire. Our kiss gained confidence and intensity as Holmes
wrapped his arms around me, making me feel all the love, loyalty,
comprehension, solitude, suffering even, which had always been inside him.
My hands worked quickly
and, when I saw his bare upper body, his chest moving up and down in the heat
of the moment, all my previous experiences seemed frivolous and nasty. The
starved flesh of my friend was clamouring for the pleasure of my care and
attention, after those years of chastity and hidden need. I kissed his throat,
his shoulders, noticing that my shy partner did not even dare to breath. I
caressed his arms softly, and then I took one, the left one, and passed my hand
over his bare forearm. I rubbed my thumb over the little marks I found there,
and I could not stand looking at him with sadness. His reaction was startling.
He opened his mouth as if he were going to talk, but in an instant took me in
his arms in a tight embrace which lengthened into a few minutes.
A little after I felt
his body relax, so I continued my exploration. But each time I took notice of
his eyes fixed on mine, in a silent request of my... why not? my natural
sweetness, I captured his mouth in deep kisses, until we both felt breathless.
The moment arrived when
Holmes led me to the bed and began to undress me. His fingers, although
accustomed to probes and tubes, had an exquisite sensuous touch, and they were
giving me infinite pleasure with each caress he lavished under my shirt. It was
so strange to me to see my friend and myself in such context! Perhaps neither
of us had ever imagined that, or perhaps... those sinful nightmares which had
surely woken us in the middle of the night, sweating and panicking, had not
been undesirable after all.
When we were nude,
pleasure, passion and endless delirium guided us through a thousand whispers
and sighs to the kingdom of desire. What my fingers brushed and my mouth
tasted, with his whole body at my mercy, pleased me and made me feel certain
that my own need of filling him with my skin was indeed his own need. Softly
and gently covered by the sweet treasure of his highest moment of pleasure, I
entered him. So my friend presented me that night with the prize for all the
years of humble devotion.
We lay on his bed in
silence afterwards. Resting secure in his arms, my head on the pillow of his
shoulder, I slept.
It had to be at dawn
when I felt his hand rubbing my shoulder.
"Watson... Watson,
are you awake yet?" he murmured.
"Good heavens,
Holmes, what time is it?"
"The right one for
you to get out of my room and to get back to your own," he said, frowning.
I looked at him, bewildered and blinking.
"Holmes, I just
can't believe it."
"I'm quite sleepy,
and I don't want you to be caught here with me. My dear friend, do you want to
send us to prison?" I could hardly avoid smiling, seeing Holmes returning
to his usual practical mood.
"Of course not,
Holmes," said I, putting the blankets aside. "But, what about your
notes...?"
"Watson!"
"All right, I’m
going. By the way," I added, pointing to the bottle of cocaine, "try
to give it up, if you love me. It's no good for you, it isn't worth it and I
don't like it." I did not hear his response, if there was one, for I slid
out of the room, taking the bottle with me.