Harry: Chapter Twenty

Like Him With Friends Possess'd

by Liederlady

Notes

Truly there has never been a man more difficult to seduce. Yet he is most worthy of the effort, quite sensual despite an ascetic streak. I judge him woefully ignorant of his merits.

Watson seems not to have been treated with due care. But then, many people have not. He has weathered whatever blow the ginger-coifed creature dealt him. His reactions imply romantic intrigue. Any woman who would squander such a suitor, for whatever reason, is surely daft.

I stroke Watson’s muscular flank and it twitches responsively under my fingertips. A crease wrinkles his forehead and I think he will awaken, but after a moment his brows relax and his breathing descends into a deeper sleep.

My friend’s splendid body is truly ill-served by his attire. The man’s tailor lacks vision. If not literally blind, he is obviously deficient of any finer sense of line and style. Rather than unflattering sack suits, Watson belongs in an artistically cut frock-coat or double-breasted reefer with matching trousers, perhaps in Payne’s grey or sepia. Ah yes, brown would accentuate that russet hair. Waist-coat in matching or complementary color, understated and smart. No pinstripes. His muscular legs would ruin their effect no matter how well cut. And no summer linens. Only wool is durable enough to drape this impeccable physique. I press a hand to his chest absently counting the beats of his heart.

If there was time I could work with him, lead him to an affordable yet capable tailor. It certainly would be a visual delight to coax the good doctor out of the positive garbage which--

Why did Watson stop? All the signals of arousal were evident. My friend was most inflamed. He may have preferred a woman, but my body could satisfy and he knew that. His demur was a thoroughly bewildering development.

Before drifting off, he repeatedly murmured apologies and something touching upon damnation for tasting sin and loving the fire. No doubt some religious-induced recrimination.

The man is a walking monolith of morality.

I roll my eyes at my poetic turn and trail a finger through the thicket of chest hair, circling the nipple I had tasted earlier. He is quite a steady chap, but even a massive logan stone can teeter when adequate force is applied.

“Ah, but unlike the Brimham, dear doctor,” I whisper, “your equilibrium was blasted by a dishonest man.” I give his prick a feather caress with the backs of my fingers and he moans in his sleep.

Once slumber claimed Watson, my intent was to return to my own bed so that I will not disturb him when I rise to fetch his breakfast from the village. I suppose I should have returned to my room immediately, but the satisfying robustness and warmth of my friend’s body have proven difficult to quit.

After his second release and immediate recovery, I urged Watson up to fully recline on the bed kissing his devout mumbling silent and rendering him breathless once again. Although exceptionally aroused myself, I found the simplicity of lying next to him watching composure and somnolence simultaneously descend upon his appealing features oddly satisfying.

He rolled to drowsily embrace me, which was pleasant enough, but his hands massaging my back and flanks and the tender attention of his lips to my cheek and neck were also agreeable. Not typical in my experience, but most agreeable.

I grasped his jaw and forced my tongue deep to offer him another taste of ‘sin.’ He groaned into my mouth sucking so greedily on my tongue that I regretted not having saved more essence for him. As his lips continued frantically feeding, I was tempted to guide them to my needy, weeping prick. This man would require little training to become expert and the thought of leading him to another erotic first made my hips buck. But I questioned his readiness.

Spooking Watson overmuch would have undone the considerable progress I made.

His embrace tightened occasionally. That, too, was unexpected as it did not seem carnally inspired. He made no sexual overture. Rather, my friend appeared to crave the closeness of another body. Likely, any would have satisfied his urge.

For me, the cumulative result of his gestures was undeniable, if curious, comfort. And so I remained in his arms long after Morpheus claimed him listening as his breaths grew deeper into slight snores. I knew not when I followed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When my eyes blink awake I hear rain pelting the cottage roof and the window lattices. The weather has once more turned ugly and turbulent winds whirl about like incensed demons. Beside me, Watson is dreaming. From the urgent press of his erection against my hip, there is little doubt of the dream’s substance. His arms are locked tightly round me and he garbles curses and sheer foolishness in my ear, slathering wet, ticklish kisses and empty promises upon my neck, thinking me some idiotic woman who would surrender to such absurdities. I struggle to escape his grasp when it happens.

He murmurs my name.

An unfamiliar sensation surges in the vicinity of my belly rising to tighten then block my throat. The reaction is at once disturbing and pleasant. Whatever its origin I believe I should like to experience it again. Repeatedly.

Watson groans my name again and his raspy voice jerks my prick to life. His arms still tightly grip my torso, but I wrestle free and mount him. In a transitory blaze of desire, I envision taking him, snug and hot, and I want to enjoy that, enjoy him. It has been a very long time since I topped a partner, far longer since feeling hunger this keen.

Earlier, the teasing penetration of my fingertip alone provoked Watson’s immediate climax. I am confident that greater girth and finely focused attention to his gland will sufficiently mitigate the initial pain of an unprepared entry. By the time the man fully awakens, he shall be delirious.

Watson will never forget his first penetration. And for all the appropriate reasons. This time I will make him shriek my name.

As I gaze down at his slumbering form, control settles in. I shall not claim him without consent, despite being taught that sexual gratification is an entitlement. Those were lessons against which I typically rebelled; I am no different now that I am grown.

I resolutely lift Watson’s legs to my shoulders and lean forward raising his hips from the bed as well. A surfeit of muscular buttocks spills out of my hard grip as I ready myself against him.

As I noted earlier, Watson’s eyes are an exceptional tint of blue. Not the dilute hue of my own, but reminiscent of the intense cobalt present in a recently rain-washed sky; refreshing, clear, striking, boundless. But as those sapphire discs swiftly blink their way clear of slumber and lift toward me, arched over him, the blue is rapidly overtaken by the ebony pupils.

My friend parts his lips to speak. I fix him with my silencing stare, firmly shake my head and continue moving, leaning heavily against him, trapping his legs against his arms and freeing my hands. One grips the headboard for support while the other glides down to swipe my yielding prick against Watson’s puckered, untested bud.

“Give yourself to me.”

His darkened eyes widen.

“I promise there shall be much pleasure for you after the initial pain. Will you trust me?”

Watson’s eyes flutter white before darting to the side of the bed nearest the door. His throat knot bobs several times. His thigh muscles tighten. The blue eyes flicker back to take in my face. They are really quite beautiful.

But a blind man could see he is not ready for this.

I growl acknowledgment before shifting my position slightly to arch my upper body closer to his. Watson’s restrained legs shove against my shoulders, but I do not yield to them. His positioning places him at a disadvantage and he knows it. The blue flashes considerable apprehension now.

I suppose that should not surprise me. I have led him to believe I am a man with few scruples. Nevertheless, realization dawns on me that Watson’s uncertainty can intensify his pleasure. So I offer up a predatory smile to deepen the conviction that, unlike him, I am an utter scoundrel.

My fingers work between us to ply his stiffening member. After two orgasms, I doubt there is a great deal of semen left, but what is there is mine. Slowly, I dip my head far enough to catch his lower lip between my teeth. Watson gasps and I stare into sapphire, relentlessly working him while thrusting for my own completion.

He struggles. I growl again and catch a glimpse of his biceps, sweat-slicked under his trapped thighs, flexing in his labors to free himself. Fingernails impotently scrape my thighs and I cannot stifle a chuckle. From the first moments of our acquaintance, Watson knew of my deceptive strength, yet here he lies beneath me, at my mercy. I suck his lip deep in my mouth and double my efforts to buck hard and accurately against his clenched entrance.

With one gesture of assent, I would take him without a thought.

Long ago, I lost both innocence and faith in the existence of love; although not simultaneously. The man who robbed me of the former was the last upon whom I lavished the latter. That lesson taught me that the sensation which most fools call love is simply a commingling of physical, visual and intellectual pleasure.

Poets describe love beautifully. I may revel in their words without embracing the philosophy. Love, some of them aver, is akin to pain. Such an analogy is more consistent with my experiences where pleasure and pain were often interchangeable. But at this moment, I ponder no such paradox.

While I thrust against the man beneath me, I relish the flush spreading across his fit body, a chemical reaction I create. I smile as his eyes grow impossibly darker and, with growing lust of my own, covet his gasps and curses as my fingers pull him closer to his third eruption of glory.

I am entirely unprepared for a sharp pang which springs to life within my chest. I do not know its source, only its strength, which intensifies as Watson’s climax approaches. As his gasps quicken, mine suspend entirely.

What is this profound ache?

He strangles out a cry, half a plea to stop and half my name. It nearly undoes me, but I may not release until my friend--

“My friend.” I whisper it in a lengthy exhalation.

Is Watson that? I suddenly realize I have considered him such without reserve. How long has it been since I sought friendship?

Proffering trust without considering deeper motivation is not only imprudent, but dangerous and quite atypical of me. It is just as well that most people do not care to know me for I have grown accustomed to seeking, if not preferring, solitude. Were there a way to entirely forego personal interactions, life could be charming.

Why would Watson care to be my friend? He thinks me a whore. One mistreated and one he has cared for professionally, but a whore nonetheless. Rather than amending his flawed deduction, I have encouraged his shock and discomfort for they afford me a measure of power. If nothing else, I have learned to leverage advantage before another uses it against me. But after this night I am confident Watson poses no threat. 

Still I wonder what benefit this honest, naïve and inexperienced man may gain from befriending someone so unlike him. The attraction is not base for he has fought against his urges most convincingly. Watson has reluctantly become the pursued rather than pursuer.

The fact that I have, that I am pursuing him is not merely uncharacteristic, but mystifying. Seduction was not my original intent for this holiday, yet here I am, assuredly in flagrante delicto.

As I gaze down at Watson, I acknowledge he is a man I admire perhaps even more than I desire. I want to know him. I want to know more than the mundane facts I can deduce by the miniscule blood flecks staining his bootlaces or the condition of his inexpensive yet impeccably maintained celluloid collar or even the personality traits evident in his smart handwriting.

There is much I want to know about this uncomplicated but highly intriguing man. And I want to believe he could value my frien--.

This ... is … madness!

I bite down on the lip I have been teasing and savor the coppery allure of Watson’s blood. He still struggles and I still control him. The emotions that color his face have run the gamut: surprise, fear, frustration, anger, lust. As his body stiffens then shudders, he cries my name again, hot breath somehow cooling my sweaty face. And the ache returns shooting upward to my breast and beyond it.

A paltry measure of semen coats my fingers; my own completion follows hard upon coating Watson’s anus and scrotum, and is accompanied by a damnable, choked whimper. I release my friend’s lip and summon the last of my strength to lift my weight momentarily freeing his legs and arms, expecting to be shoved away in anger.

But that does not happen. Instead, Watson’s legs and arms twine round me pulling me down to mingle my gasps with his. We have no breath for kissing. Our mouths simply glide together flawlessly fitting like puzzle fragments, long-separated.

When breath returns to us both, Watson murmurs something unintelligible and I regret being unable decipher it. It is not my sole regret; my desire to claim this man as my own remains unquenched.

My fingers wander under his sac and emerge slick with my essence. Watson stiffens at the contact and resists my fingers’ demand for entry to his mouth. I growl a harsh command, and he reluctantly parts the swollen lips.

Watson’s hesitant, weary licks at my fingers are soon accompanied by a soft whine of protest, but I ignore it. Being the first to feed him, to claim him in this way, is a right I earned by sparing him during the hunger of lust. Now with cooler, yet undiminished appetite my hand again dips down beneath his scrotum to gather additional nectar.

A few moments later, Watson’s suckling slows and stops, and his breath again deepens to slumber. I momentarily consider rising to fetch a cloth to cleanse him, but his limbs are still blanketing me, warm, clinging. I wearily lick the wound I made to his lip.

“Sleep a while, my Watson. Sleep,” I mumble until I myself succumb.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While I hitch the mare to the rented gig for the trip to the village, a thick mist descends to wet her just-groomed coat and my bare head. She snorts a few times and swings her long face to gaze back as though to persuade me that an excursion in such weather is decidedly ill-advised.

“I know, my dear, I know. We’ll be undoing your beauty treatment. But I promise another hearty brushdown later for I daresay this dreadful rain shall persist the entire day.”

I grumble the last, casting a calculating eye skyward and the mare shakes out her mane in agreement. I cluck to her and she whinnies a reply.

“Oh, I owe you that much for neglecting you yesterday.”

I always talked to the horses as I worked on them. It had a calming, distracting effect and made the tasks more pleasant. This morning, because I was alone with the chestnut mare, I sang lowly while I groomed her in the small stable behind the cottage. It did not matter that the lyrics were French; she was so lulled by the sound and the gentle strokes of the brushes that she came close to drowsing under my ministrations.

“We must fetch our friend his breakfast. He spent rather an energetic night, you see, and shall require abundant nutrition to replenish his ... well, his strength,” I say, scratching her on the withers. “Between you and me, I proved a quite demanding host.” Recalling the range of Watson’s expressions throughout the night, from apprehensive to surprised to lustful, prompts my chuckle. The horse snorts at the sound.

“Yes my pretty thing, I am a thorough blackguard.”

Upon awakening next to Watson, I had been shocked to discover I slept so long. Already gone eight, I nevertheless took time to heat some water for my morning ablutions and spared a soothingly warmed washcloth to cleanse my companion as he slept, using as light a touch as I later would with the horse. The good doctor’s dream progressed undisturbed, a smile curving his lips when I left him.

Once the mare is hitched, I cluck her into a leisurely gait for the short ride to the village inn. Despite the unpleasant weather, I want time alone to think, time to think about Watson. As enjoyable as the night’s exertions were, my lack of discipline as well as my reactions to the man have me deucedly confused.

I want him. That in itself is extraordinary. I believe he wants me although he may never choose to accept me carnally beyond what has already passed between us. Indeed, he may shun all intimate contact after last night.

Watson is honorable, but I know that even an honorable man may view his actions more critically, if less candidly, in the light of day. Darkness conceals much—from without and from within. When I return with breakfast, I shall not be surprised to find a much-altered companion.

Watson’s response to our nocturnal activities will be instructive. It may disappoint. However he reacts, my desire to know him will not diminish. But will Watson continue to desire my friendship?

Friendship again! ‘Pon my word it is proving a persistent theme.

Professor Thatcher often invoked the Bard, thoroughly convinced that love and friendship could restore any loss, end any sorrow. I was, and am, less idealistic though I admit a man is only as good as his convictions.

The Professor and I debated the topic one late night while laboring over the indices for his manuscript ...

“One day, Holmes, you shall understand. You do not speak of it and I shall never question you, but I suspect that disappointment has clouded your judgment on this subject. Love can prove quite alien a concept to one who has never been graced by it,” Thatcher had said kindly.

“With due respect, sir, love can prove dangerous to one who has never acknowledged its inherent limitations,” I had haughtily replied.

The Professor took no offense. After all, he was deeply in love. His brow furrowed with apparent disappointment, but it was not disappointment in his philosophy of the power of love.

“I would argue that the limitations have less to do with the emotion and more with those who profess it,” he had quietly replied after a lengthy pause. I did not conceal my scowl.

“You disagree?” he asked with no note of challenge in his voice.

“Is this developing into another cautionary discussion regarding my new acquaintance?” Describing my tone as irritated would have been a gross understatement. “I thought we decreed that a closed subject.”

Thatcher bowed his head.

“I won’t deny it was not upon my mind when I spoke. But you are correct; we agreed not to speak of him further. It was only my concern for you in light of his past conduct that compelled me to tell you of his dismissal.”

“And you disapprove of my decision to continue our association.”

“Any disapproval is reserved solely for him,” the Professor said, as he looked me straight in the eye.

“When he speaks of you at all, sir, he speaks highly. That is well for I would not stand for any abuse of your character. Accordingly, I insist that you keep to yourself whatever prejudices you hold regarding his inclinations.”

Thatcher recoiled as though struck then took a step around the table that separated us. But he stopped before he reached my side of it. I fumbled for a cigarette, trying to control the considerable palsy that suddenly afflicted the hand holding the match. Once the flame caught, I took a deep drag that did little to help.

“Any abuse of character resulted entirely due to his own actions, not because of anything I have said of him, then or now. And if I harbor any prejudices, they are roused only by the damage to the others involved.”

“Mmm, corruption of the state’s youth. Dismissal and professional exile are, I suppose, eminently more preferable as atonement than hemlock. No doubt a distinct indication of societal progress,” I had acidly replied.

Thatcher’s eyes widened. “So he has given you some accounting of the charges?”

“He has been honest with me.”

“I hope so.” Thatcher said, passing a hand over his jaw and I noted that mine was not the only unsteady hand.

“Professor, I have been on my own for some time. I know, far better than most, the dangers of trusting unwisely.”

“I know that,” he replied softly with a nod.

We both knew that at first I had questioned his trustworthiness. For weeks after the invitation to dwell in his house, I kept a wary eye upon his behavior with his children and awaited some untoward advance from him. The only overtures he extended were friendship, guidance, encouragement of and admiration for my skills.

My dark suspicions prompted only a sickening roiling within my stomach during that conversation. I never wanted Thatcher to know the extent of my initial apprehension, but he was a most perceptive man and may have guessed.

Had I been less childish, I would have let the matter of my recent acquaintance drop, but on I plunged.

“I require no protection, sir. I am not some green fool prone to a dramatic denouement over unrequited desire.”

Thatcher colored, but I knew him well enough to understand it was not embarrassment.

“Suicide, young man, is not drama.”

It was the first time I heard a note of sternness transform Thatcher’s normally pleasant voice. I bowed my head in acknowledgment.

“Unrequited desire? Is that how he put it?” the Professor asked incredulously.

“Essentially,” I replied.

“He hasn’t been honest then,” Thatcher said as he shook his head. “I urge y--”

“Sir, I hold you in the highest regard. Please do not give me cause to alter that judgment,” I interrupted, turning away from him. My tremors had grown so severe that I dared not raise the cigarette to my lips.

“My boy--”

“Enough!” I shouted.

For a moment, all was silent. Then Thatcher moved around to face me. It was rare for me even at that age to be forced to physically look up to anyone, but Thatcher was exceptionally tall. His jet black hair was just silvering at the temples and his eyes were graced with creases that deepened when he smiled, which was often. But that night he bore a more sober expression than I had or ever again would see. He was hurt by our disagreement. And I was convinced that both my ire and persistent acquaintance with his former colleague had ruined the amity between us, a connection I thought exceedingly fragile.

I stared into Thatcher’s eyes, expecting to be banned from his house and hoping I would be permitted to say goodbye to the children.

“I apologize, Holmes. Your loyalty is admirable,” he had said. It appeared he wanted to say more. I could only guess what it was.

At the time, I regretted only my tone and said so. Of course he pardoned me and we never again spoke of Moriarty.

My friendship with Professor Thatcher was undamaged. He behaved as though we had never traded a cross word. Less than three months later, he was dead and I mourned him most abjectly. So much so that Mycroft criticized my ‘unmanly deportment’ complaining that our own father’s passing did not inspire such displays of grief.

I cannot argue with my brother’s assessment. I spared as much interest in Sherrinford Holmes’s exit from this world as he did my presence in it.

The unpleasant mist has given way to a hearty drizzle and the winds have kicked up, directing the spray in my face and staining my cheeks. I cluck and the mare starts into a pretty trot without any prompting from the rein. Her response prompts a smile.

“Ah, not to worry, lovely lady, I am quite awake,” I say, “only daydreaming.” She tosses her head as if to doubt me.

But my thoughts once more turn to my companion, comfortably sleeping back at the cottage. Once again, I cannot deny that he is much like the Professor, who was the soul of gentility.

Yet, had fate not acquainted Watson and I so dramatically, he would not have merited my notice beyond his physique. Even that may not have drawn me. I have known better-looking men. And a few far more brilliant. The undeniable difference with Watson is his character.

I wonder whether Professor Thatcher would chide that my facility to discern a commendable nature from a deceptive one has taken so long.

Notes:

Like Him with Friends Possess’d: Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXIX, “Wishing me like to one more rich in hope/featured like him, like him with friends possess’d.”

logan stone: Also known as rocking stones; large stones which are so precisely balanced (as on a fulcrum) that even the application of a small force can set them to rocking. Some logan stones are man-made megaliths, but others, formed by glaciers, are naturally occurring. In Scotland, ancient open-air courts were often located near logan stones (“clach-bráth”), the movement of which was used to determine the guilt or innocence of those accused of severe crimes. Because of this, clach-bráth are sometimes referred to as “judgment stones.”

Brimham: Reference to a rocking stone in Yorkshire, which legend says moves only in response to the efforts of an honest man.

hemlock: Holmes is apparently making reference to the death sentence Socrates received for allegedly corrupting the youth of Athens.

Chapter Twenty-one: But Give Thyself Unto My Sick Desires