Harry: Chapter Ten

Seaside Encounters

by Liederlady

Notes

Sherlock Holmes was full of surprises. As we arrived at our destination, he notified me that he had rented a small cottage within walking distance of the beach.

“Har-- I mean Sherlock, you have done too much. Surely, this is costing too--“

“John, you did bring your bathing attire, did you not,” he said, interrupting me.

“Yes, but I still think--“

“Excellent! Perhaps you would care for a swim later this afternoon?” he said as he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of the house.

“No, I do not think so,” I said sullenly.

He looked over at me as he began to exit the gig.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“I do not appreciate being ignored, sir,” I replied.

He started. It was only then that I noticed the harshness in my voice. Sherlock’s eyes darted to the ground then rose to regard me again.

“I am sorry. I was not ignoring you. I simply-- I wish to-- John, please understand, I want to treat you to a holiday, dear fellow. Is that such an onerous objective?” he asked, exasperated.

I had to laugh. I had once wondered how his unspoiled features would look convulsed with frustration. This moment was my reward.

“And what, pray, is so amusing?” he asked, exasperated even further.

“You. You are far too easy to rile, my dear fellow. You really must work on that,” I said, still chuckling.

He arched his faintly cleft eyebrow at me.

“Hmmph, I trust that if nothing else pleases you during the next three days, your unique source of joviality will suffice,” he huffed.

“You will do, my boy. You will certainly do,” I laughed, then climbed down from the carriage to help unload our parcels.

It was a small cottage. A cozy sitting-room was situated just past the tiny foyer. Off to the left lay the kitchen and to the right a short corridor with two bedrooms across from each other and a recently updated WC beyond those.

The furnishings were rather masculine in nature...sturdy chairs, tables and sofa. Nautical artifacts, daggers, various shells and stuffed seafowl adorned the walls and mantel. A large painting of a clipper ship on stormy seas hung above the hearth. The windows were dressed in navy gingham and gauze. It was quite pleasant.

“This is a bachelor’s cottage,” I remarked.

"Very astute, Watson. It is rented from a retired mariner who uses it infrequently during the spring months,” Sherlock answered.

I stood at the bay window facing the sea and admired the view. Our cottage was perhaps only 600 yards from the shore, behind a craggy dune. There was the lighthouse on a flat hillside off to the right. Around the cliffs from there were the castles we would visit. I had read the tourist leaflet during the ride here.

“Quite delightful. I haven’t been in the ocean since I left home,” I said, more to myself than my companion. Finances always being an issue for me, this was the first holiday I would enjoy since I was a teen.

“Scotland, isn’t it?” Holmes said.

I turned in surprise. I thought I had lost any accent years ago.

“Yes, how did you know?” I asked.

He chuckled.

“I have an ear for even faded accents,” he said, as he turned toward the hall.

“Ahh, the Observant One … I should have remembered,” I joked. He threw a grin at me over his shoulder.

I followed his lead snatching my bag from the table, trailing his lean form down the hallway.

“These are supposed to be identical in size,” he said as he opened the door to the right.

I glanced in over his shoulder to see an airy room graced with gauzy curtains over a window which faced the road. A double cherry-wood four-poster, dry sink, chest of drawers, upholstered chair and desk rounded out the room’s furnishings.

We checked the room across from it.

Similarly appointed, its window offered a vista of the sound.

“Do you want a seaside view, Holmes?”

“You are the guest, my boy. You take it,” he called as he moved into the other room. I smiled over his sudden adoption of the endearing term as I was certainly several years his senior.

“Do you wish to take that swim now or later?” he asked.

“We should really head to the village for food and supplies, shouldn’t we?” I ventured.

“Already laid in, my dear fellow,” he called back.

I started then walked across to stand at his doorway. He was beginning to unpack his things.

“Just how long have you been in the area planning this?” I asked.

He glanced up at me and grinned. “Only this morning,” he said. “I secured use of the cottage before leaving London.”

So he lived in London. I had thought perhaps he hailed from some grand country squire. My curiosity as to his background, however, could not distract the unease I felt about his indulgent activities. I shook my head at him.

“Really, you should not have done,” I continued to protest.

His grin faded, the eyes narrowed and he raised his hand in an impatient gesture.

“We have already covered this ground, have we not?” The impatience colored his tone as well.

“Yes, I know. It is just-- I’m unaccustomed to such extravagant gestures. I apologize for not being gracious,” I said with a wince.

His eyes widened a bit. Then he stepped round the bed and approached me. He reached a slim hand to gentle my shoulder and when he spoke, his rich, warm voice came at a near whisper.

“You think such a simple thing as this extravagance, Watson? It is truly not. If it makes you easier in your heart, may I tell you that the cottage is borrowed by connections through a relative?”

“That would not be an outlandish fiction, would it?” I asked, offering a bit of smirk to eliminate any sting.

The grey eyes twinkled and darted to regard his hand on my shoulder then to the top of my head, a near smile perking up the thin lips.

“So, you have begun to know me,” he said, arching an eyebrow at me. “No, my dear doctor, it is the truth.”

“Well, that does sit better with me, then.”

He regarded me a moment more, his eyes scanning my face, assessing me. I recalled the clinical scrutiny with which he had once discomfited me. This was not it.

“I will tell you this, John Watson. Had I the means, I would lavish you with a repayment worthy of the aid you rendered me as well as your estimable character,” he said, his grey eyes now wide and achingly vulnerable, gazing down into mine.

I hardly knew what to say as I regarded him. His hand squeezed my shoulder in what could be construed as good fellowship. But when the hand trembled then stroked several times, the contact seemed to stray beyond; I resorted to humour in an attempt to direct our conversation toward decorum.

“You-- you truly do enjoy rendering me speechless, don’t you Harry? I’m sorry--” I began apologizing for my error.

"Oh, John, I fear I misled you when I selfishly accepted the compliment of that name. I am hardly noble. Nor am I one to solicit others to follow me as you implied I could. But I am quite, quite gratified you think such of me,” he said.

His natural haughtiness had fled. I never imagined hearing such sweetness color this boy’s voice. Nor did I imagine the effect it could have upon me. I fought the urge to rub my suddenly sweaty palms against my trousers and a decided twitch rippled through the shoulder under Sherlock’s pale hand.

He must have sensed it for his eyes bore down into mine and his lips parted as though to speak, then pressed closed again. I watched, helpless to look away, as his jet pupils dilated slightly and a flush colored his high cheekbones. He inclined his head fractionally and for an insane moment, I felt the room spin round me. His lips parted once more, rosy curves set against pale porcelain.

“You do swim, don’t you John?” the curves asked me.

I blinked. Several times, I fear.

“Swim?”

“Yes, swim. Or will you require careful instruction from me?” he asked, his hand stroking again at my shoulder.

“Of-- of course, yes. I swim,” I sputtered.

Sherlock smiled down at me.

“Excellent. Then shall I test my abilities and lead you to the water’s edge?” he murmured.

“Your abilities?”

“My leadership abilities, dear fellow. To what else could I be referring?” he replied. Then he winked, patted my shoulder and reached for the door. I suddenly realized he wanted to close it to change clothes and hustled back to my own room. I heard his door close, but not before his delighted chuckle wafted out from behind it.

Less than half an hour later, we were strolling down toward the beach. I carried a blanket, my towels, an empty pail and small spade.

“For digging clams and shells, of course,” Sherlock had explained.

I had also insisted on bringing the large umbrella I had spotted in the stand just inside the front door. When Sherlock’s eyebrow arched an inquiry, I offered my own explanation.

“That fair skin of yours could burn on such a sunny day.”

That prompted a demure downcast of eyes as well as his brilliant lingering smile.

From my companion’s left hand swung a large picnic basket which he had retrieved from the kitchen just prior to leaving the cottage.

“I fear I know little of what to include for such an excursion. We have cold sandwiches and cheeses, assorted fruit and a quite good white wine,” he said as we drew closer to the beach. “I have never been on a picnic before. Do you think these will suffice?”

His tone reminded me of our last day at Radcliffe’s when he questioned the need of my overcoat for our walk.

“You’ve never been on a picnic?” I asked, incredulous.

“No, have I made an error in the selection of our fare?”

“No, what you’ve brought is fine, I certainly … I mean who has never been on a picnic?” I chuckled.

He stopped abruptly. When I realized he had, I was already several steps ahead of him. I turned back, surprised to see him frowning and a blush of embarrassment coloring his features.

“I have not,” he said. His left eyebrow dipped in uncertainty.

“Well, then, it’s nigh time for you to enjoy one, isn’t it?” I said good-naturedly.

For a moment, he resembled a small child not quite certain he was not being placated. He actually chewed at his lower lip.

“Come on, now Holmes, let’s get to the water before the waves kick up,” I said, jerking my head encouragingly toward the sea.

He hurried toward me, a half-smile curving his lips.

When we cleared the rougher terrain, we removed our boots and slung them over our shoulders. We shuffled down to a few feet from the water’s edge, the damp sand giving way between our toes, then wandered along the shore a few dozen yards to where the beach appeared to be less rocky.

“This looks like a good spot,” I said and began spreading out the blanket. Sherlock followed suit securing the edges with the picnic basket and a few nearby rocks. Once we were situated, I peeled off my robe and tossed it on the blanket. Sherlock quickly glanced over at me.

“You go ahead. I just want to ensure that I have brought all the food I intended,” he said quietly, still wrapped in his robe.

I regarded him as he crouched down and appeared to be fumbling with the basket’s latch. I wondered if he was suddenly nervous about partially disrobing in front of me. I thought of teasingly reminding him I was his doctor, but the memory of just how and why I became such curbed my thoughtless tongue.

“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll keep the water warm for you.”

I ran off toward the water, surprised at its chilliness. The unusual temperatures had only climbed over the past two days so the water would naturally not have accordingly warmed. It was still early spring.

I splashed into the bracing sea up to my chest before stretching out to begin swimming. By the time I did that, I heard Sherlock splash in behind me. I turned my head to see his pale face register the cold and his long arms reach out with strong strokes. I righted myself and began treading water to allow him to catch up with me.

Sherlock was naturally athletic, but it appeared that swimming had not been a regular activity for him. He stroked strong enough, but he strove to keep his head above the waves and there was an uncomfortable glint to his eyes.

“Too cold?” I called.

“Rather what I expected,” he responded.

“Oh? I had thought it would be warmer.” He had swum up beside me and was treading well enough, his head still craned high to keep his jaw above water.

“No, the surface temperature would need to be in the high 80s for several weeks before the water would be comfortably warm,” he said.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Simple,” he replied, as though that in itself was answer enough.

“Do you wish to head back to the beach?” I asked.

He shook his head, still arched high. In answer, he levelled himself out and began stroking farther into the waves. I followed his lead.

But after ten minutes or so, his teeth were chattering and his strokes were less enthusiastic.

“Let’s head back in,” I suggested.

“You are not cold?”

“Well, yes, but it’s invigorating. Remember, I’m used to those cold Scottish lochs,” I joked. “You go on back in. I’ll follow you in another ten minutes, all right?”

He nodded and set off back to shore. I continued swimming a bit, more parallel with the coastline than farther out to sea. When I finally turned back toward the beach, I noticed a tall, thin man standing next to our spot. It seemed he was talking to Sherlock Holmes.

As I drew close enough to shore to stand upright, I could see Sherlock laying face-up on the blanket, a towel draped over the shoulders of his black bathing suit. The man was standing just to his left and looking down at him. Dressed in black frock-coat and trousers, the man did not hear me because the waves had been picking up, their crashes masking the sounds of my approach.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed. He and the man were not conversing. Rather, the man was simply standing there gazing down at my young companion, slumbering innocently under the bright May sun.

“May I help you?” I asked quietly. Only the tall man’s head turned toward me.

His age was difficult to determine, possibly thirty-five, possibly older. He had a craggy, aquiline face with a receding, black hairline and a long, hooked nose. His tall, starched collar pushed up against loosening grey jowls which made me reassess his age; he was likely much older than thirty-five. The man’s mouth was a severe, thin, nearly blue line which did not smile at me.

His deep-sunk eyes were his most remarkable feature. As they ran down then up my length, I was reminded somewhat of Edwards’ … totally black, but with a profound intelligence glowing within them which never graced the constable. There was more in those eyes than intellect.

The more is what sent a chill down my spine.

“Too slender for the Admiral’s liking. Is he yours?” the man asked in a smooth, beckoningly ominous voice, his head jerking fractionally back toward the sleeping boy. My skin crawled.

“I beg your pardon?” I huffed, dumbfounded at the words and implication. And the man smiled. He was one of the deucedly ugliest beings I had ever laid eyes on, but the smile made him hideous.

He inflicted another glance down toward Sherlock and I braced myself for action.

But he began stalking away, down the beach with a “Pleasure. Good day to you,” cast over his shoulder. Trembling from my rush of adrenalin, I watched him walk down the beach before swerving up over the rocks until I could no longer see his dark form.

Chapter Eleven: Bewilderment