Harry: Chapter Twenty-one

But Give Thyself Unto My Sick Desires

by Liederlady

Notes

My lips twitched in reaction to the light pressure of ... something that brushed against them. Something yielding and warm, something that made me smile.

I drew in a deep breath, savoring the mingled essence of spring flowers and dew. There was another scent, but I could not place it. I was too comfortable to try and place it, feeling very drowsy, but relaxed. I could not recall the last time I felt so utterly spent, calmed and happy.

Understanding began to dawn. I had been asleep and something awakened me. I did not want to open my eyes, but whatever had touched my lips made me curious enough to want to see it. I wondered if Lizzie had once more found me asleep in our hideaway and kissed me softly awake. I could not help chuckling at the prospect when, almost as an answer, a slim hand stroked my cheek and a cool thumb traced a firm trail across my smiling lips and back again.

Sleep still clung to my eyes and the daylight, although subdued, was sufficiently brutal to warrant defensive blinking. When my teary blur finally cleared, a beautiful face dominated my field of vision.

“Good Lord,” I mumbled against the face’s thumb, still caressing my lips.

“Good morning, Watson. I should chide you for sleeping away the better part of it, but I haven’t the heart to do so,” Holmes said. There was a honeyed tone in his voice which immediately influenced the juncture of my legs. His gaze fluttered there and his cleft eyebrow slowly rose, handily besting the impaired efforts of my organ.

Almost instantly, images from last night careened through my disordered mind, images which I hoped were remnants of dreams.

If they were not, if they had actually happened--

A sinking sensation cut through my gut and for one terrible moment, I thought I would be ill. Holmes, eyes still downcast toward my groin, bestowed a lovely smile then surged forward to kiss me again, but I turned my head before our lips met.

A sharp intake of breath preceded the jolt of him pulling away. I winced toward the wall to my left. My detestable lack of control during the night had not only misled and sullied him, but now my effort at rectifying the lapse was hurting him as well.

How could I have treated this boy in so scurvy a manner?

“Holmes, I--”

He rose from the bed.

“Your breakfast is waiting. I advise haste lest it grow cold. Your dressing-gown,” he said as I felt the garment’s weight settle over my bare torso. The rich baritone now held no trace of sweetness.

Then the bedroom door closed.

Fully awake, if not desiring to be, I sat up and glanced over at the window. The light that trickled through it bore an undeniably green cast. The weather, it appeared, was as ugly as my nocturnal behavior had been.

Surveying the bed, I saw the damnable traces of our activities everywhere. But even a blind man could tell what had transpired for I reeked of sweat and semen. My conscious repugnance did little to discourage the aromas’ effects upon my unscrupulous prick.

“DAMN!”

I vaulted from the bed and only then remembered all the things which Holmes had done with me, for me, to me. The memory of his finger at  ... in my body prompted a wave of dizziness strong enough to warrant catching hold of the dresser’s edge for support.

Holmes had wanted to-- and so had I. The sight, the feel of his body beneath mine had been utter--

How in the world could I face him over something as mundane as breakfast?

There was water in the pitcher and as I reached for it, I could feel its radiant warmth. I shook my head in amazement at my host’s considerate gesture and quickly saw to my morning ablutions.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Good heavens, Holmes!” I said several minutes later when I took in the spread upon the table. “Are we expecting company?”

There was surely enough food present to feed a small contingent.

“What?” he answered as he idly balanced a sliver of butter upon a knife, twisting it one way then another to deter it from slipping to the white linen tablecloth.

“We shall never be able to eat all of this food.” Yet even as I said so, I sat with a grin and began setting to the ham, eggs, bangers and fried potatoes.

“Pears!” I cried as I noted four of the pale green fruit in a small bowl. They were small winter pears and the sight of them made my mouth water. I had not enjoyed one since leaving home eight years earlier.

“Ah, you like them then. Good. I do not favor them,” Holmes said dully and began to rise.

“You’re going to eat, surely?” I asked, glancing at his pristine plate with a frown.

“I am not hungry.”

He stepped away from the table but reached for his coffee cup. I extended my hand to stay his which jerked away from my reach. For a moment, his hand was still then his long, white index finger traced along the weave of the cloth to the right of his saucer, the neat, buffed fingernail scoring a shallow groove.

“I’m sorry for my-- It was most improper of me to-- I behaved badly last night,” I sputtered, glancing helplessly up at his stern expression.

“Did you?” he said with seeming disinterest. His hand made an abrupt cutting motion before taking up the coffee cup. Holmes skirted the table heading toward the sitting-room, but I swiftly rose and intercepted him.

“Yes. I did. And I’m at a loss as to what to say,” I said spreading my hands in front of me and hating that they shook.

“Then say nothing,” he said. “If you will excuse me.” He tried edging his way around me. But I cut him off.

“I’m sorry.”

Holmes stopped his advance and stood staring at me. A band of crimson freckled his high cheekbones and the bridge of his long, nearly perfect nose. The effect only enhanced his youthful mien.

‘He is so young,’ I thought, recalling Doctor Brett’s warning that such a confused youth might harbor a sense of obligation to one who had treated him kindly.

Kindly! What I had done during the night was certainly not kindness. It was lascivious, lewd, a crime against nature itself.

Nonetheless, it would be lying to deny that, at the time, I not only desired what had happened, but craved an emotional connection to rival the physical. Perhaps that was the most disturbing aspect of my night spent with Sherlock—a longing for more.

I stopped my hand midway as it rose to touch the place where Holmes’ lips had met mine. Panic-stricken, I dared another glance into those startlingly beautiful grey eyes, which watched me with a healthy measure of their old suspicion. My friendship for him, my very honor had been tested and found dreadfully lacking. How could he ever trust me again?

“I never intended to hurt or mistreat you. Please, believe me,” I whispered.

Holmes’ severe expression seemed to darken further and his eyes narrowed before widening with that vulnerable light which I had witnessed several times since knowing him. The boy suddenly appeared nearly as shaken as he had after my encounter with the shark yesterday.

“Mistreat me? You?” he said, the cultured voice heavy with incredulity. “Is this what you truly believe?”

I nodded.

“You suffered so terribly at the hands of other callous men. And now I have--”

Suddenly, his hand was pressed to my lips, its fingers quaking like delicate leaves unsettled by a harassing wind. His wide eyes now resembled grey pools perilously close to breaching their banks. When he spoke, his words emerged hushed and with obvious difficulty.

“I am not what Edwards said I was. I swear to you. I have known--  have been with others. Men may have paid or bartered to have me, but I am no rent boy. Do you believe me?”

The words, tumbling from him, shocked me. His earnest gaze, those striking grey eyes, made my breath catch.

“I told you yesterday I did not believe Edwards. You are so young. You have been misled and I have contribu-- ”

His fingers were moving over my lips as I spoke and one of them slipped between them. A crazed, unfocused glint fired his eyes as I tried to crane my head back to dislodge it from my mouth. But it pressed deeper inside and stroked suggestively against my tongue, which surged upward of its own accord trying to envelop the interloper.

Holmes gasped slightly then slowly withdrew his finger. When his eyes focused once more, the smattering of a blush that had previously banded his pale cheeks and nose now infused his entire face and edged down his sleek, graceful neck. Even the part in his hair colored.

His fingers were still at my lips, the one moist with my saliva. They lingered a fractional moment more before he jerked them away. He cast his gaze downward and I thought I saw his own lips move, as though to form words. But no sound emerged from him.

“H--”

I was stunned to find my own voice had deserted me. I cleared my throat and attempted speech again, finding it severely diminished.

“Please tell me that I am forgiven.”

Holmes shook his head, his eyes still downcast.

“There is nothing to forgive. Any fault was mine. Mine alone.”

A lengthy and uncomfortable pall enveloped us. Before it silenced me entirely, I reached out to take his elbow. His flinch was physically painful.

“You have provided a breakfast feast worthy of the Queen herself, my friend. Please come and share in it with me. Otherwise, I shall never enjoy its bounty,” I pleaded.

I watched his nearly ebony eyebrows knit together.

“I do not typically par--”

“You would not force me to invoke my professional oath, now, would you?” I said softly.

The icy greyness flicked upward, piercing me with its intensity. Something quirked the rosy lips, hardly a smile, but warming nonetheless.

“I am no longer under your professional care,” he said, trilling an “r.”

“Ah, your memory is deficient. Perhaps yesterday’s seaside injury has had a more deleterious effect than I originally perceived,” I said with a frown and a stern shake of my head.

Now a slight smile curved the Cupid’s bow lips.

“That would imply a chink in your diagnostic expertise,” he drawled.

“Not at all. It could be a secondary infection because the patient did not follow orders. I prescribe a hearty meal and a follow-up examination.”

Holmes stepped close to me and peered down the length of his elegant nose at me.

“You wish to examine me?” he asked, suggestively arching an eyebrow.

I felt my own cheeks coloring, but was determined not to allow the boy’s teasing irreverence to either lead to another lapse of decorum or ruin the moment.

“I absolutely intend to check that foot injury as soon as we finish the breakfast dishes. Now, kindly take your coffee there at the table and I’ll see to filling your plate,” I said sternly and took his elbow to steer him in the general direction of the food. He resisted for the space of a heartbeat, frowning slightly and looking quite uncertain.

“Please,” I said and squeezed his elbow good-naturedly. Holmes did not smile, but that uncertain expression fled.

“Very well. However, kindly do not overload my plate, doctor. I do not possess as hearty an appetite as you,” he drawled, shooting an eyebrow skyward as he cast an accusatory glance toward the admittedly healthy portions I had heaped on my plate.

We spent the balance of the dwindling morning laughing over the bountiful spread. I managed to get Holmes to eat two helpings of eggs, a rasher and two bangers. He swore off the potatoes with a “too heavy and I abhor that greasy aftertaste.” And despite his claims to the contrary, he daintily ate one of the winter pears, appearing to savor it while he made fun of the way I tucked into my third helping of eggs.

During that breakfast, Holmes indulged me with more laughter than I would have credited him upon our first acquaintance. His was an unusual form of mirth, nearly silent, but infectious nonetheless.

“You hold your knife in an unusual manner for a gentleman. I shall have to observe other surgeons to determine whether it betrays your profession,” Holmes said.

“What?” I asked. I had been staring at him while he spoke, eyes glittering and lips moist from the pear.

“Your knife. Do you wield it as you do a scalpel?” he asked.

I looked down at the utensil in my hand and realized he was right.

“I never noticed.”

“Of course not,” he said. Then he reached over and traced the curve of my fingers around the handle. “But you should be aware that a great deal can be deduced about a person’s activities through observation of their hands.”

I watched his long index finger move along my own then move up toward my wrist. He grasped it and turned my hand over, gently prying the knife from my grasp. His fingers then opened mine, splaying them to his scrutiny as though to read my palm. As he pored over my fingertips, he stood and edged round the table next to me.

“What is this? You have performed manual labor in the past,” Holmes said with conviction. “There are fine scars on your fingertips and signs of old callus,” he said, clearly mystified.

“One summer years ago, I apprenticed with a tanner,” I said. Memories of the place’s stench rose up to wrinkle my nose.

“A tanner? Why would you do such a thing,” Holmes said in a tone so nearly horrified that I chuckled.

“Certainly not because I desired it as a profession, I assure you.”

Holmes fingers stroked over the old “scudding” scars on my fingertips. It had taken several months of pumice and glycerine treatments to soften the calluses I gained from the work performed to raise enough pounds to fund my second year at university. A professor had sarcastically lectured, “Scraping a patient’s skin during an examination shall never do if you harbor any ambition of becoming a respectable physician, Watson!”

At the time, I had wondered whether I would ever sit for the medical school forms. At the time, I had not truly cared.

Holmes glanced up at me and squeezed my fingers.

“Then why do such work?”

“I needed money for university. The tanner needed a pair of strong hands. It was a fortuitous alignment of desires.”

Except that I had not desired the study of medicine. Not then. Even now after having succeeded and excelled, there were moments when the pressure to fulfill the expectations placed upon me grew unbearable. Father was an empathetic healer whose confidence never faltered. The vocation did not come as easily to me. But when Hamish adamantly refused to take up the mantle--

My gaze dropped as I felt the caress of Holmes’ fingers over my own.

“Something disturbs you,” he said softly. “Have I again managed to stir unpleasant memories?”

I looked up to find his dark brows knitted in concern. A mixture of gratitude and anguish and sympathy swept through me and on an insane impulse, I reached out to smooth one sculpted cheek which pressed against my fingertips.

“How could I have failed you so miserably?” I whispered.

Sherlock’s grey eyes visibly darkened then closed, the lacy dark fringe so striking against the alabaster skin. So delicate and beautiful. Before I knew what I was doing, our lips were pressed together and his parted to accept me.

It was the taste of the pear on his tongue that brought me back to where I was, to who he was, to what had happened the night before. And when I broke away from him, I raked the back of my hand across my mouth.

He never allowed the hurt to breach the depths of his grey eyes. But just seeing it there was sufficient to wrench a place deep in my gut. A place I never knew existed.

Chapter Twenty-two: We Two Alone Will Sing