Harry: Chapter Eighteen

And Count The World Nothing

by Liederlady

Notes

Holmes insisted upon walking me to my bedroom as I was still groggy. With one arm firmly curved round my middle, the other cupped my elbow, guiding me down the passageway.

I thanked him once we reached the door. He replied by reaching for the latch.

“I shall help you,” he said, stepping into the room with me.

“I’m fine now.”

But Holmes would not relinquish either my waist or my arm.

“Truly, I am well enough to continue. You must be tired. And I confess, my bed is calling me,” I said. I covered his left hand with mine and squeezed reassurance.

“Are you certain you require no further help?” he asked.

I shook my head. His black brows pinched and creased the fine porcelain-like skin between them. His hand faltered a fraction of a moment before releasing my waist.

“Certainly, you have suffered my company long enough. I do apologize for my appalling behavior,” he said.

It was a slim opening, but I chose to explore it and drew a deep breath.

“I know you were not angry at me. You remembered something … something troubling. I have no desire to pry, but please do not hesitate to rely upon me if I may be of assistance,” I said.

He shook his head, eyes still averted.

“And I told you on the ride here that I enjoy your company. Nothing has occurred to change that,” I added. His head jerked around toward me. Even though my jaw hurt, I had to smile. I very much enjoyed surprising this boy. His incredible eyes gained a singular glow when the unexpected occurred.

“I suspect your definition of enjoyment is unique, Doctor,” he said with a smirk, staring at the spot where he struck me. But the light in his eyes did not dim.

“I confess. You do manage to strain the concept.”

His laugh emerged as a bark. The grey eyes gleamed as he gazed at me before lighting and lingering on my hand still upon his. When they rose again to meet my gaze, they had darkened sufficiently to affect my breathing. I swallowed to control it and he smiled slowly.

It was a struggle not to jerk my hand away. His rose and for a moment I thought he would restrain my arm. Instead, his hand continued up to touch my jaw, close to where he hit me.

“It is late.”

My husky voice prompted his smile to broaden, but I had to turn my cheek from his touch. His hand dropped to his side. Then Holmes turned away and left the room.

I released breath in a rush and stumbled back toward my bed. After several moments, I began dressing for bed once more.

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

A crashing roll of thunder shook me awake. For a moment, it was unclear whether the noise was real or a vivid figment of my dream. A sudden flash outside the window and the resulting clap reoriented me.

An apparent deluge was raging without, winds rattling the window-panes in counterpoint to the frequent thunder. Dawn had yet to break; the inky darkness was pierced solely by the lightning flashes. I turned toward the bed-stand for a match to check the time and only then realized I was not alone in the room.

Holmes was huddled on the floor next to my bed, his head reclining on one long, graceful arm stretched parallel to me across the blanket. His other arm was crooked toward me, fingertips just shy of my pyjama sleeve.

“Holmes?” I whispered. But he did not stir.

Propping myself up on one arm was movement enough to jar him to wakefulness. His fingers twitched and blindly reached forward then his head rose. I watched as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, squinting to focus upon me.

“Are you well?” he asked, a sheepish expression flitting across the strong features.

“I’m fine. Why the devil are you sitting on the floor?”

His lips pursed. A flash of lightning flared and almost immediately a peal of thunder descended from the heavens. It was deafeningly near enough to make us both flinch.

“The storm,” he said.

I nodded absently then sat up in bed, surprised at how chilly the room had grown. The rain and wind must have substantially dropped the balmy temperatures outside. I glanced back down at Holmes and noticed that he was shivering.

“You’re cold. You should be in bed,” I said, scowling.

I was flattered by his concern, but it was unfounded. I had lost consciousness momentarily after his blow, but that was hardly serious. Once my vision and speech had cleared, I knew there had been no permanent effects. My jaw was still sore, but now more a dull ache than tender.

If I sent Holmes back to his room, there was no guarantee he would not return once I drifted off to sleep. I was wary of him. Considering the tall tale he had spun to extract me from Netley, I held little doubt he could be sufficiently conniving to play upon my sympathy and maneuver an invitation into my bed.

What was more disquieting was that part of me wanted him here. I thought of Doctor Brett’s counsel. I thought of my earlier desire … and Holmes’s … and my intense discomfort with both.

I thought of the many times during this past month when I had successfully denied my baser instincts, staying my hand and not staining the pure memory of our brief, but treasured rapport. I thought of the tragedy Holmes shared with me and of his wounded expression when he left my room. And then I remembered his half-whispered words in the sitting-room.

‘I never thought to want anyone again.’

He had tried to act the seducer and that had disturbed me. Doctor Brett had planted the seed of doubt by saying Holmes might feel a sense of obligation for my kindness and care. And when he pondered whether the boy had been trained to sedu--

“I have no wish to dishonor you.”

I blurted the words before I had time to think.

Holmes turned that probing gaze upon me and it nearly spurred me to flinch, just as it had that first night we met. He made no reply and what I could see of his face was unreadable. He gracefully rose and moved toward the window, drew aside the gauze curtain and leaned his forehead against the glass.

For several moments I watched him, the flashes of lightning silhouetting his elegant and angular profile.

“When I was a boy, I used to watch storms with my mother,” he said.

It was not what I expected. He had volunteered no information about his home life before this.

“You were not afraid of them?”

He shook his head.

“When I was very small, thunder terrified me and Maman would always find me cowering under the bed. But one day, she bought a book that explained electricity and lightning. The next time there was a thunderstorm, we went to the attic and sat by the bay window and she read to me.”

His voice was subdued, bereft of its normal, confident timbre.

“Maman read it and quizzed me to make certain I understood. From the first time she read it, I knew that the lightning created the thunder and that electricity created the lightning and that only if one were outside and exposed was there danger. Even so, when she quizzed me I would purposely recite the wrong answers.”

I smiled, but asked the obvious question anyway. Holmes continued gazing out at the storm.

“Because I wanted her to keep reading,” he replied.

“Did she know what you were doing?”

“She always knew.” His voice had dropped to a near-whisper and bore a note of profound sadness.

I wanted to ask him more, wanted to know what other ways his mother had soothed him. I wanted to know whatever he would tell me. But I kept silent. For now, this was difficult enough for him to share.

“Come to bed.”

He continued gazing into the turbulent sky.

“This is not your nature,” he said.

“Come to bed,” I repeated and threw aside the blanket.

When he settled his lean form next to me I made certain his long legs were covered. Whether his shaking could be termed shivering or trembling, I could not say.

So I held him. And after several moments he relaxed against me, but he still shook. I was deeply relieved that I did not.

I began the caressing … his back, his arm, shoulder, neck. I felt his lips graze the hollow of my throat and tried to control the shudder that coursed through me and the flame that ignited within the center of my being.

This was not my nature.

Years ago during my first weeks living at the Hastie school dormitory in Buninyong, I watched the dark figures of boys steal out of their own beds to creep into those of others. I heard their giggling and whispering and whimpering. I heard their panting gasps and ill-stifled cries. And I clenched my eyes and shook my head and, with my pillow, blocked the sounds I knew as sinful.

Mother and Father had enrolled me at Hastie and settled the rest of the family in Sebastopol and later, Ballarat. There, Mother would help the pastor spread the Word to local quartz miners and aboriginal people and Father would do as he has always done—tend the sick and injured and counsel the dispirited or weak or weary or dying.

A fortnight after my arrival, a younger boy, one who had taken to following me about—out to the cricket pitch when I practised or running along the touch-lines of the rugby field while I played or sneaking away with me to scale Mount Buninyong and re-enact the first settlers’ awe—this boy came to stand at my bed.

His name was Roddy and he was also a new boy. The first time I saw him some towering bully was chivvying him about before pulling down his knickers. When Roddy began crying, the bully laughed. The mean boy was older than I and bigger, but I clouted him anyway.

He clouted me back and it smarted, but when I stood up and stepped toward him again he stopped laughing. And he left Roddy alone after that.

So Roddy followed me and was my first chum at Hastie. And one night he stood at my bed and kept whispering my name. And I knew what he wanted. And I knew it was sinful, but I still wanted us to be friends. Roddy came to my bed for four nights and stood.

But I never answered his whispers.

Finally, he stopped coming. Afterward, Roddy began following the bully.

And now I lay in bed and whispered Sherlock’s name as his lips kissed my throat. And I tried to keep my roaming hands above his waist because I did not want to dishonor him or become like Constable Edwards or commit sin or a crime or change my nature.

But I could not help what I felt when Sherlock’s teeth marked my skin and his lips suckled the mark and his tongue laved it. And when his lips kissed a fiery trail up to mine, I opened to them. And this time I could not stop kissing them, did not wish to stop. When his body rolled atop me and his hands roved over me and revealed me and caressed me … prodded … peaked … stroked, I did not wish for them to stop. When I felt his strong hands where they should not be, where no man’s hands should be, I lifted my head to see … to see those pale, slim, beautiful hands upon me.

And I could not stop the gasps or blood-flash of sight or the choked cry of his name or the soiling spill of my foul desire. Oh, I had not wanted to dishonor those beautiful hands.

“Watson,” Holmes breathed in a way that made the word a prayer and brought his hand to his lips and brought his lips down to mine. And I tasted my desire, feeding of it from his mouth and his hand.

I knew nothing, nothing more until a new dawn had risen.

Notes

And Count the World Nothing: “He scarcely saw a face, scarcely heard a voice say, ‘That is your friend,’ and then it was over, having filled him with beauty and taught him tenderness. He could die for such a friend, he would allow such a friend to die for him, they would make any sacrifice for each other, and count the world nothing, neither death nor distance nor crossness could part them, because ‘this is my friend.’” From Maurice’s second dream, Ch. 3, Maurice: A Novel, by E.M. Forster.

Hastie school dormitory in Buninyong: A Presbyterian minister, Rev. Thomas Hastie, established a boarding school in 1848 in this village within the Ballarat region of Australia. The word Buninyong is from the Aboriginal word, ‘Buninyouang’, meaning, “man lying on his back with raised knees,” apparently referring to the crest of Mt. Buninyong when viewed from various angles. In 1851, gold was discovered in Buninyong. Although no great strikes were made there, the discovery and speculative lure drew many prospectors and soon massive gold strikes were discovered in the nearby town of Ballarat and its surrounding areas. Once the gold lodes were exhausted, quartz was mined.
(Sydney Morning Herald, February 8, 2004.)

Chapter Nineteen: Appetite