Harry: Chapter Sixteen

The Charter Of His Worth

by Liederlady

Notes

As my eyes flashed open in the darkness, the horrible echoes of my nightmare still rang in my ears ... pained screams and muffled shouting. I blinked several times, striving to discern any identifiable shapes around me. It was then that I realized the screams were stretching on.

They were not remnants of my dream.

I stumbled from my bed, blindly feeling my way, my eyelids still uncomfortably blinking. I found the door and flung it open. The screaming grew louder.

“Harry!” I cried.

I stumbled across the hall toward the source of the screams. My hand bumped the door latch. Once inside the room, diffused moonlight cascading through the gauzy curtains aided me in locating the bed.

A figure there thrashed about. A distressed voice muttered oaths and pleas.

“Har-- Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock, wake up. Wake up, my boy. Holmes, wake up!” I shouted, grasped his shoulders and roughly shook him.

He was deeply immersed in the night terror. His voice was ragged; he sobbed, crying gibberish. I slapped him, but he only thrashed harder, grappling with phantoms, demanding then begging them to stop.

I slapped him with greater force, continuing to call his name. By the time his eyes fluttered open, tears tracked both our faces.

“Sherlock-- Sherlock! Wake up, wake up. It is John Watson. You are safe, dear boy, you are safe with me,” I shouted.

He jerked into a half-sitting position, his shoulders arching under my grip. His hoarsely muttered oaths trailed off and I felt his body’s tension ease as my voice reached his rational, gradually waking mind. His gaze darted anxiously about the room before settling on my face. Then his taut features relaxed somewhat if his hands, clutching my arms, did not.

“John? John! Safe. You are safe? They-- he did not--? Safe! Watson. Yes. Watson, forgive. Forgive me for wak—it-- what is-- your face--”

His voice dryly choked as a long finger rose to sketch the trail of my tears. Then his eyes closed, spilling the balance of their welled contents. A terror-fired palsy shook him.

I realized how tightly my hands were grasping his sharp shoulders—hard enough to bruise. I relaxed my grip and stroked down his wiry arms, as much to calm myself as him.

His eyelids fluttered open again, pale pools shimmering in the filtered moonlight. They widened slightly and a change surfaced in them, terror no longer foremost. But the emotion that suddenly darkened them was no less volatile.

“Watson,” he whispered.

Suddenly Holmes leaned forward, his lips pressing desperately against my mouth with force enough to cause pain. My own lips parted in surprise only to be breached by his tongue. It tasted of brine, oaky claret and bitter tobacco.

A voice welled from deep within to shatter the surface of my thoughts, shouting for me to pull away. Yet my body ignored the command, remaining stock still, now somehow unfazed by the boy’s ardor.

But I did not return the kiss.

The internal voice I did heed was that reminding me of Sherlock’s terrible abuse. And then Doctor Brett’s concerned baritone echoed with the advice that neither passion nor rejection were ways to help this beautiful, young man. My foolish uncertainty over the feelings that had consumed me about him fled; calm settled through me.

This boy was my friend. He required reassurance and protection, understanding and support and constancy and guidance. He desperately needed a man he could trust. I would do my utmost to be that man.

My arms slipped round him, one hand at his waist; the other, his shoulder. My aim was to gently disengage the embrace and calmly explain his ardent attentions were touching, but inappropriate.

Then the boy’s head tilted to deepen the kiss and an urgent growl passed from his mouth to mine.

My body instantly responded, overruling my mind’s rational intent. My hand at his shoulder darted upward to firmly clasp Sherlock’s neck, holding him motionless. My other traced along the ridges of his spine and jerked his torso closer.

It was then that I returned the kiss.

I lost all sense of time, place, propriety, reason as base desire overtook me. My mind shut down every task, every awareness but sensation: the blood-warmth of the boy’s moist skin beneath my hand, the ripple of his muscles under my arms, the arch of his chest against me, the brush of his silky hair against my forehead, the fanning of humid, exhaled breath from his nose, avidly pressed against mine—the living, liquid, delectable inferno of his mouth.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes obliterated whatever mastery of passion I thought I possessed.

A muffled cry rose from far back in Holmes’s throat. Its echo within my mouth jarred the rational portion of my wits, the memory of what had happened to the boy rushing a sobering chill through my body. My hand drew forward from his neck to stroke his jaw, barely stubble-flecked; then I reluctantly, but swiftly broke the kiss, displacing my lips by rubbing my thumb against his. Something near a whimper broke from Sherlock that cut to the bone.

Christ. What had I done?

It was only then that I grew fully aware of Holmes’s arms locked about my torso, hands flattened, their slender fingers tracing meticulously over the muscles of my back and shoulders. His hands moved much the way my own do over a patient’s body when seeking symptoms of trauma.

“Holmes,” I breathed against his lips.

He groaned my name in reply.

“My boy, you are so--, you-- this must--”

Holmes leaned forward, his lips parting again, his eyelids hooded but open. His eyes…oh, his eyes. I had to close my own against the invitation within them.

“No, this should not be happening,” I whispered to convince myself. In the next instant, the boy’s lips pressed to mine once more.

His kiss was sweet this time, so very nearly tender. His tongue darted across my lips, flicking against my moustache, teasing upward, urging my lips to open. His hand glided over my shoulder, knuckles lightly grazing my throat before one, long finger stroked feathery caresses to the back of my neck.

His cry had been one of passion. Passion. For me.

My lips instinctively obeyed, parting to admit him. He surged into me, probing relentlessly, rubbing the roof of my mouth, tracing over my teeth, tasting inside my cheek, fencing with my own tongue.

A lengthy moan erupted from deep inside me, like the imploring plea a penitent might utter within the confessional.

Our kiss seemed to flow on endlessly and again, spatial bearing abandoned me. My body felt as though surrounded and conducted by warm ocean waves, floating deliriously to some blissful isle. When I opened my eyes again, my head was cradled within the bed’s pillow and Sherlock’s lean form lay draped atop me. One of his hands tangled in my hair, the other caressed my chest. The boy had, at some point, apparently unbuttoned my pyjama top.

And he was still kissing me. With every thrust of tongue and caress of lips and demanding twist of his head, Sherlock further depleted my quickened breath.

My own hands were busy, stroking wherever they could reach along the lithe body that arched against me. With a shock, I grew aware of Holmes’s arousal, rubbing along my own, both of us extremely engorged.

Alarm shot through me, jerking my hands back from under Holmes’s arms to press hard at his shoulders. He only arched against my groin more insistently while his teeth bit at my tongue and lips. My head whipped from side to side to break away. Verbalizing my desire for him to stop failed. I finally had to buck my weight toward the right to throw the boy off.

He landed on the floor beside the bed with a thud and a cry that was a cross between sob and grunt. I bolted from the opposite side of the bed and backed against the window sill. Though part of me wanted to ensure Holmes was not hurt, I had to remain where I stood.

“What the devil is wrong with you?” he hissed as he shot up from the floor. I felt confident he was physically sound then.

Holmes’s black hair hung in his eyes which glittered under pinched brows. The slim hands were clenched into fists at his sides. His chest heaved, from the rudely interrupted passion as much as anger, I surmised. It was only then that I noticed Holmes’s pyjama top had become completely undone to the waist and slipped off one pale shoulder.

I looked away.

“There was desire in your kisses,” Holmes said with a rasp of arrogance. I sensed rather than saw him move round the end of the bed. I backed away from his advance toward the wall.

“I-- I was-- it was a mistake. I should have stopped it immediately,” I mumbled.

Holmes stepped close to me. I could feel his breath against my left cheek.

“Why?” he asked, his voice now breathy. I shook my head in renewed amazement that his mood could shift so abruptly. But I did not look up at him.

“It is inappropriate. You-- you are young and impulsive and--”

He chuckled softly. “I trust you are not going to say inexperienced.”

I flinched, my head jerking upward. The grey eyes bore a sly, seductive gleam, his swollen lips curved into a smile, but it swiftly died when he saw my expression and his gaze wavered then flickered away.

“I should return to my room.”

I moved to step round him, but Holmes’s arm shot out to block my way.

“Wait.”

“Please …”

“What is wrong?” he asked. His other hand moved to grasp my jaw, but I shrank from his touch. He instantly pulled away and straightened.

“Let me pass.”

Holmes surged toward me for a moment then sighed raggedly and stepped back. I swiftly moved to the door, a storm of emotions swirling through me. I simultaneously required and regretted quitting his presence.

Once I reached my room, I sagged against its closed door a moment. Then I made for the water pitcher, the bracing spill of coolness against the back of my neck restoring some of my sense. I was amazed to find my hands trembling. In the pale moonlight, I glanced up at the dresser mirror.

Save the wild-eyed expression and swollen lips, the man who gazed back at me did not appear substantially different from the one who a few hours earlier had calmly prepared for bed. I began fingering my lips, remembering the silky texture and taste of Holmes’s mouth.

I shook my head clear. It did not help. I could still feel the fevered skin and press of his body. I savagely stripped off my pyjama top and moved toward my clothes draped on the chair.

~~~~~~~~~~

I hear Watson’s door open less than two minutes after he left my room. His footfall is nearly silent. For a strapping man, he is remarkably stealthy.

Surprisingly, he has donned his trousers, the softer rustle of wool-against-wool replacing the crisp brushing sound of the linen pyjama bottoms. When I hear the front door close, I slip, unstockinged, into my boots and open my bedroom door. I blindly retrieve my walking stick from its resting-place against the chest and heft its weight, slapping it into my palm several times.

Glancing past Watson’s open door, the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains of his window reveals the condition of the room. His jacket and waist-coat still hang neatly on the dresser chair. I blow out a breath; he must have left in shirtsleeves. His pyjama top lies on the floor, the bottoms abandoned haphazardly on the bed, at odds with the orderly condition of the dress clothes.

A sizable shadow breaks the light streaming in the window. I limp forward and gaze out. Watson shuffles down toward the beach, kicking at debris. So long as he remains in sight, I shall not follow. Leaning my forehead against the window frame, I take a long, final drag from my cigarette.

I pressed Watson too far. He was correct, I had acted impulsively. One would think me of frightfully limited experience. The damnable nightmare distracted me. If it had not been for that, he would be in here sleeping soundly rather than wandering the beach seeking ...

What in blazes is the man seeking? Does he think he will find some splendid rationalization for what is happening buried out there in the sand? Should the distraught doctor unearth such perhaps he will deign to share it with me.

I thought I had entirely dispensed with such pursuits.

I unlock the window, raise it and fire out the cigarette before leaning out to suck in cool, night air. Faint flashes among gathering clouds on the distant horizon signal a storm. Watson has neared the water’s edge and turns toward where we had picnicked.

Moriarty’s appearance was unexpected. I would have thought to warrant surveillance by a few of his sergeants. Or perhaps Moran again. But not the redoubtable Professor himself.

Blast. I would never have gathered the doctor for this excursion had I thought Mor-- ... I had foolishly failed to anticipate Moriarty’s renewed … concentration.

I turn hastily from the window and leave the cottage when Watson moves out of my direct line of sight. Halfway to the dune, a low slab of sandstone affords an adequate observation post, commanding view of a good expanse of the beach in either direction—Watson is alone.

I scowl for having failed to bring my cigarette case and matches.

Quite a credulous sort is this young physician; far from imbecilic, but not brilliant, certainly. Attractive in the extreme, although striking build and features have never offered sufficient allure. I prefer a man with keen wit and shrewd intellect. Makes jousting that much more tantalizing.

With proper handling Watson could be rendered suitably amenable to relations, and physically, if not intellectually, proficient. I have cultivated less promising acolytes than him. But such an endeavor would require more time. Besides, he does wear on my limited patience. It shall be trying enough to recompense his kindness, see him back to Netley then safely on the transport ship to India.

Should Moriarty harbor curiosity about the doctor, he will abandon it if he believes I have enjoyed then discarded him. If the man holds no interest for me, he is useless to the Professor.

A sizable chunk of quartz at my feet catches my eye; I begin pounding and scraping it against my sandstone seat to fashion efficient shards.

At least Watson is not some blathering fool either in love with the sound of his own voice or eager to elicit choice particulars at another’s expense. He is curious, but admirably restrains the tendency. And he was quite attentive to my narrative today. A less discriminating type would have listened less and interjected all manner of either probing or superfluous questions. He means to be supportive, quite in keeping with his chosen vocation.

My instincts have been justified and Mycroft’s suspicions disproved.

That Watson obeyed my edict about the … incident is more, I think, than fear of angering or embarrassing me. He wishes to be trusted, but also to be led. He desires to please, needs approval, yet exercises sound judgment and a firm resolve. Not immune to persuasion, but is unquestionably his own man.

A complex array of traits; he could prove quite useful and interesting. Truly a pity there is not more time to groom him.

By the time Watson begins to head back, I have crafted four functional, if rough, bodkins from the quartz. I slip the two thickest in my dressing-gown pockets and await the doctor’s approach. He displays surprise.

“You should not be using that foot.” There is irritation in his voice. He still does not look me in the eye. What would be required from another conquest proves disconcerting from the doctor.

What the deuce is wrong with me?

“I wish to apologize for my behavior. I acted rashly and have obviously offended. Will you forgive me?” I say.

The tactic rocks him. His eyes dart upward and he meets my gaze momentarily before looking away again. He is not being coy. I abhor coyness from a woman. A man practicing it would earn a resounding cuff.

Watson is still shaken by what transpired in my bed.

“I should-- I should apologize as well. I acted disgracefully. I--”

“No.”

I flatten my hand against his chest. He does not quite back off from it. Encouraging.

“You were, as always, a gentleman,” I say.

Thunder rumbles to the south. Watson turns then steps back from my hand to scan the horizon. He draws in a long breath and breathes out a lengthier sigh.

“Rain in the offing,” he murmurs.

“Will you accompany me back to the cottage? Or do you wish to continue your solitary reflection?”

A shake of his head, then, “No, we should be getting back to bed.”

He blushes. Even in moonlight it is discernible.

“That’s to say … I mean not togeth--” He wisely abandons attempts at clarification.

I turn away to smile. The man is quite inept in such matters. Refreshingly so. I begin hobbling back to the cottage.

“Do you require assistance?” Watson offers, prompting another furtive smile.

“No thank you. My stick is adequate to the task. The foot does not ail me as it did earlier.”

“Good,” he mumbles then moves next to me, matching my slowed progress.

When we near the door, he hustles forward to open it for me. As I pass through, I lean against him enough to warrant an upward tilt of his head. Apprehension pinches his brows and widens his eyes, but there is no trace of the panicked expression he earlier wore in my room. I hold his gaze until his right pectoral twitches beneath the white linen.

“I admit to possessing a dreadfully limited store of patience and even less tenderness, Watson. That said you merit whatever I can claim of such virtues. I shall not press upon you undue advantage. But take heed. I am quite accustomed to obtaining that which I desire.”

His throat knot bobs appealingly and I lift a finger to delicately tease it.

“I think more neutral territory would better suit any further … explorations. Therefore, I shall remain for a spell on the sofa. You would benefit by joining me there rather than retiring to your bedroom. Of course the choice is entirely yours, my dear doctor.”

Chapter Seventeen: Equilibrium