Harry: Chapter Twenty-two

We Two Alone Will Sing

by Liederlady

Notes

The balance of the morning was spent in silence. Holmes and I wordlessly saw to the breakfast dishes—I washed, Holmes dried. Occasionally our fingertips touched as I handed him a dish. Each time, I felt scarlet heat flush upward to my face and I cursed inwardly for behaving more like a schoolboy than a grown man. Even my youthful overtures toward Lizzie were not so clumsy or obvious.

And Holmes was a mere boy.

“Watch it!” he cried, reaching out an instant too late to rescue the water tumbler that slipped from my grasp. It splintered into a dozen pieces the moment it met the floorboards.

“BLAST! I’m terribly sorry!” I cried as I bent to clear up the shards. “Your host has excellent crystal. I shall pay for the damage, I --”

Holmes stooped down to pick at the pieces nearest him, an unpleasant scowl marring his handsome features.

“Nonsense, fool! You’ll do no such thing. It’s but a glass.”

Again, I could not help noticing the creases between his dark brows. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to them. Perhaps they had first been furrowed when he was a boy and his mother demanded he go to bed. But he insisted he was not sleepy and pouted and the furrows sprouted and ...

When I realized what I was doing, I shook my head, glancing sharply away from him lest I be caught staring. “But the set will be ruin--”

Holmes hissed and for a moment I feared he had cut himself. When I looked at him again, the scowl had been replaced by a glare.

“Enough!” he said in a voice nearly too low to hear even at this close proximity.

There are some souls in the world who can command more attention with a whisper than a shout. Sherlock Holmes is such a one.

I bowed my head and mumbled another apology, which only prompted him to drop the shards in his hand, rise abruptly and walk away.

I cleaned up the damage—to the tumbler at least—and finished the dishes alone. I had intended to check the wound to Holmes’s foot, but did not disturb him. I nearly convinced myself it was for his sake. But I could not deny the true reason.

Instead, I perused the contents of the bookcases that bookended the fireplace. Judging from our host’s rank, I had expected naval historical accounts or perhaps maritime adventures. I favored sea yarns myself.

But the Admiral’s library held volumes on a variety of subjects. Greek philosophy, political and legal discourses. Eastern religions and customs. Norse mythology. Botany. German chamber music. Astronomical theoretics. French art.

And ancient medicine. I took down that volume, made myself comfortable on the sofa and began to leaf through its pages while the gale outside worsened. Although I tried to interest myself in the tome, I had difficulty keeping my eyes focused. Before long, the toll which the previous night’s astounding events had taken on me proved too much.

When I awoke, it was to the sound of the wailing, plaintive voice of a distressed soul. Or so I first thought. But, no. It was ... music.

I rose and moved slowly down the corridor. Holmes’s bedroom door was closed and the rain, wind and thunder from the storm were doing their part to muffle the sound, but there was definitely music—exquisitely beautiful, painfully haunting music emanating from behind the door.

When Holmes had unloaded his bags from the carriage upon our arrival yesterday, I noticed what looked like a violin case. I gave it little thought, imagining him to be merely a student upon the instrument. I had never entertained the notion that the boy could be a virtuoso.

For many moments, I simply stood at his door—forehead pressed to wood, eyes closed—listening.

When the slow piece ended, there was a brief silence before the strings erupted into a series of shrieks which made me frown. Then a furious dance of notes followed, which skipped from one end of the scale to the other.

Extremes—this song was composed of extremes. I did not favor it, but I was transfixed, unable to draw away. It was as though the instrument—or the man who played it—possessed some dangerous power akin to that of the famed Hamelin piper, to hold listeners spellbound, helpless to resist being led toward the unknown ... pleasant or perilous ... redemptive or damning.

The piece broke off in a jangle of notes so discordant and abrupt that I found my breathing labored and rapid. As the silence lingered, I felt increasingly apprehensive, hoping Holmes had not wearied of playing. From his hands, even discord was desirable. I turned my head, leaning more heavily against the door, trying to hear whether he had begun a softer tune.

Suddenly, the wood beneath my ear lurched forward and I followed suit before wiry arms caught and steadied me. Flustered at having been caught eavesdropping, I tried to wrench away, but Holmes’s grip tightened.

I stopped my futile struggling and glanced up at his face, expecting an expression of ire. Rather, he appeared amused.

“Is this some quaint habit you Scots-men practice? Listening to music through closed doors?” he asked with a smirk.

“I apologise. I thought to knock, but did not want to disturb you. My word, Holmes-- that-- you-- it was the most lovely music I’ve ever heard!”

Again, his eyelids fluttered in that coquettish way a girl’s can when complimented on a new hat or frock.

“I made errors,” he replied, his eyes darting toward the bed where he had laid the violin.

“It all sounded lovely,” I repeated, suddenly angry that I could not voice a more fitting compliment for his artistry.

“You know music then?” The smirk had returned to his lips and his gaze glided back toward me.

I shook my head and grinned sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m woefully ignorant. But even a clod like me knows-- well, talent.”

He made a small sound in the back of his throat that was neither chuckle nor grumble. It reminded me of the black swans I used to watch as a boy in Australia. Although the birds I adopted as “my swans” were a nesting pair, each year I lived there I was disappointed that they laid no eggs.

Nevertheless, during the spring and summer months, I would lie upon the ground near their nest watching them preen one another with their fiery bills, making soft crooning harmonies the entire time. Occasionally, the stark white flight feathers of the preened recipient would be revealed and the swan would react with a low sound. I used to pretend the creature was embarrassed by the exposure of its concealed feathers.

The noise Holmes made sounded similar to that of the discomfited swan, but there was no cause for the boy to be embarrassed. The thought prompted me to look up at him and I smiled as the sight of his unruly black hair conjured the image of the swans once more. Holmes could do with a bit of preening himself. My forearm actually bent upward to do so before I stopped it, and my smile quickly upended.

“Mmm. You would disagree then with the maestro who shooed me away with his baton, complaining my technique was amateurish and undisciplined?”

Holmes was taunting me. I truly knew little of music, but I did know what I liked when I heard it. And although the second piece he played disturbed me, I found it far too compelling to ignore.

“An expert undoubtedly possesses a wealth of experience and knowledge I lack, but I would certainly oppose anyone who would dismiss either you or your obvious gifts.”

Holmes started. His hands tightened their grip on my upper arms a moment before dropping away. His lips parted to speak, but nothing emerged. Then his head cocked to the side and he turned that intense focus of his upon me for another long, uncomfortable moment. I wanted to look away, but dared not.

“Thank you, Watson.”

His voice had dropped to so hushed a timbre that it was difficult to hear above the din of the storm. But I had watched his lips form the words and their echo glistened within his eyes. Again, I began wondering what sort of life he had known that a mere compliment could affect him so.

Suddenly, my throat felt as though it had forgotten its responsibilities. As the silence stretched out, even Holmes began to look uncomfortable, his gaze darting toward the floor then the door jamb, anywhere but at me.

“I imagine it would be an imposition to ask if you’d play some more?” I said when I finally swallowed and again found my voice.

His gaze was still averted, but I could see that small smile lift the corners of his mouth. He looked quite young when he smiled like that, rather resembling a little boy who had been caught dipping a finger into the cake his mother had just finished glazing for the evening’s guests.

The idea of Holmes being scolded—at any age—for pinching cake frosting made me chuckle, and my companion’s head suddenly jerked upward. The grey, searching gaze scanned my face intently.

“I just had the most absurd thought,” I sighed.

“Which was?” Holmes demanded, unquestionably bristling. I frowned to think that it still took so little for suspicion to darken his brow.

“I-- well, it’s just that I envisioned you as a little boy putting your finger into the frosting of a cake your mother baked and being reprimanded,” I said. I chuckled again as I imagined those bright grey eyes going all round and innocent as the little boy with the silky black thatch of hair explained that he thought the cake was intended for him and him alone.

The words he had spoken the night before suddenly echoed in my mind, “I am quite accustomed to obtaining that which I desire.” Although their context prompted a troubling effect below my belt, I could not quite stifle another chuckle.

I am certain I would have enjoyed knowing Holmes as a boy. Growing up, Lizzie and I had managed to delve into all manner of mischief with our childish adventures yet I harbor no illusions that Sherlock Holmes could have handily bested any of our efforts and plunged us into far, far more than mischief.

“I fail to see the connection, Watson. What has a cake to do with my playing?”

His brows, wrinkling with utter and justifiable confusion, finally undid me and I let loose with a hearty peal of laughter. Holmes stared at me doubtfully, likely pondering whether to be incensed with or fearful of the lunatic before him. His dumbfounded expression only intensified my giddiness and I helplessly shook my head from side to side. The only sane thought which managed to edge into my mind was how alluring he looked. It was enough to aid me in wresting back a measure of control.

It was imperative, I knew, to face this boy with a clear head. When I dared look into his eyes again, I saw neither consternation nor anxiety.

“A most curious fellow, I must say,” he murmured. His appraising gaze travelled my length.

“It’s just difficult to imagine anyone reprimanding you with any measure of success,” I admitted, with a final chuckle.

“HA!” he barked in reply. Then he flashed me a dazzle smile and his hand good-naturedly gripped my bicep.

I began to doubt whether my spine would ever grow immune to the tingle prompted by that smile.

“Would you play something else?” I said.

Holmes’ hand slid languorously down my sleeve before releasing me.

“I am not in the habit of playing to an audience,” he said in a strange voice.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I meant no offense. I should not have been so presum--”

“However,” Holmes said, cutting me off, “if you truly wish it. Have you a request?”

“Anything you select will be delightful,” I said.

“Come,” he said, gesturing me farther into the room. “Sit there, on the bed.”

He took up his violin and bow and turned away from me toward the rain-streaked window. Beyond the glass, the road on which we had travelled to reach the cottage was lost within sheets of rain being pelted by the merciless wind. The road would shimmer into sight only to be swallowed up again. A slight shudder rippled Holmes’s shoulder blades before he raised the bow and drew out a seemingly interminable cry from the strings.

I did not know the song. It was slow and languid and aching. There were moments when it whispered, still others when it sobbed. I wanted to watch as much as listen while Holmes played it because his lithe grace was nearly as beautiful as his art. But I could not resist the instrument’s demand for complete attention. No distraction would be brooked. And so my eyelids shut out the rest of the world so that my ears would miss nothing.

At some point during the slowest section, I began feeling dreadfully insecure—lacking. I found myself longing to be more than I was. To know more than I knew. About music. About chemistry. About everything that might ever hold any interest for him. He deserved a friend as exceptional and gifted as he was.

But I knew that I was ordinary. I could never be such a man.

And then the song swelled and lifted and carried me with it. And the longing, though still with me and still strong, shifted somehow. It was as though the aspects of my being consumed by fear and doubt were left behind as I soared upward, guided by the song in a quest for perfection.

I wiped my eyes just as the final note sounded, just before Holmes turned back toward me.

“Are you certain you are not French?” Holmes asked, peering intently at me.

“Beg pardon?”

“Only a Frenchman would be so moved by Lalo,” he replied with a small chuckle.

“I’m sorry. I was-- it was quite a beautiful piece. Did you say it was called Lalo?”

Holmes barked another laugh and plopped down on the bed beside me.

“The piece was BY Lalo, dear fellow,” he said.

“I warned you I was ignorant where music is concerned,” I said, spreading my hands.

“On most people a confused smile simply looks foolish. On your lips, it is quite another thing entirely,” Holmes murmured then his slim hand reached out to touch mine.

I jerked my hand from under his, instantly regretting the foolish reaction. Holmes rose abruptly and spun toward the window, jerking the violin up to his chin in a single motion. Without a moment’s hesitation he began bowing another harsh piece. I tried to apologize, but he paid no heed and continued playing, increasing the pace of his strokes upon the instrument.

I made a movement to rise with the intent to leave, feeling I had, again, wrought sufficient damage. Without warning, Holmes swirled about, strode toward the door and kicked it shut, playing fiercely all the while and apparently not missing a note. A sharp glance from grey daggers advised me to keep my place.

And so I did.

After the fierce song, Holmes’ mood softened somewhat and a lighter piece ensued, at the end of which the instrument’s strings again sang sadly. A sweeter melody followed and another, seductive and slow. The movement of his arms, the swaying of his body were as hypnotic as the music. He gracefully floated about the bed like a dream-phantom, occasionally glancing at me, but much of the time his eyes were closed. His brows were creased in concentration while the muscles of his jaw worked in concert with his bowing.

I watched in fascination as a sheen of perspiration broke out upon his forehead and the raven locks fell damp across his closed eyes. No longer was I reminded of my swans. Instead the memory that surfaced was of those terrible, early days of watching him at hospital, his slumber beset by night terrors while his fever was barely kept at bay by my ministrations of warm compresses and alcohol.

I shook my head to clear it of the awful images of his wounds and mistreatment. Then the thought of Edwards touching him surfaced and ...

“It is all past, Watson,” a low voice said.

I glanced up to Holmes. He stared down at me, his bow poised in mid-stroke; his expression nearly benevolent.

“I’m sorry?” I mumbled.

“You were recalling unpleasant memories best left buried. Your medical skills healed my body. Your kind nature cared for the rest,” he whispered.

“How ...”

But I could neither finish the question nor continue to look at him.

“Your natural advantages are abundant, my dear Watson, save when your upper lip curls in that unattractive manner. I have noted the expression appears to coincide with distasteful memories of our first meeting ... or of friend Edwards,” Holmes said. He was attempting a light tone, but I could hear the undercurrent of stress.

“Will you tell me what transpired between you that night he found you?” I blurted out, the long-unspoken question finally breaking free.

Long, silent moments passed after the deplorable breach of etiquette.

My eyes, suddenly locked on the well-appointed carpet beneath my feet, could not gaze upon him. I feared seeing the spectre of that battered boy in his eyes. I did not hear Holmes move, but felt the bed sag next to me as he sat. Off to the right in my field of vision, I saw his violin and bow slip gently to the carpet.

I heard the black swan sound once more.

“It does not matter now, you know,” he said softly.

“If you do not trust me ...”

A brush of his pale knuckles along my jaw silenced me.

“You are quite the fool, aren’t you?” Holmes murmured as his hand reached my chin, the supple fingers cradled and tipped my head upward.

The kiss was gentle, slow and mind-robbing. I knew I should stop it, but had not the heart to do so. Nor the will either. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to continue. To deepen.

When my insistent, questing tongue breached Holmes’ lips, he broke the kiss as gently as he had begun it.

“I’m sorry,” I said breathlessly.

Holmes smiled and his thumb ghosted a path over my lips.

“Most curious,” he said, his normally pale eyes now quite dark. “I never liked kissing. It seemed not to have much purpose other than as a means of escalating intimacy. And there are far more efficient methods for that.”

Holmes’ thumb traversed my lips again before he leaned in and kissed me a second time. Still gentle. Still slow. Still impossible to resist. His tongue flicked at my upper lip until I opened to him, but he did not enter my mouth, instead teased at one corner then arched upward to tickle the hairs of my moustache. A tremor slithered its way down my abdomen and, inevitably, to my groin.

“Mmm, yes. Very good,” Holmes said, nodding slightly as his head tilted and his lips took in my sore bottom lip for but a moment. “Most essential,” he breathed when he released my lip.

His fingers made a slow, torturous journey along my jaw to the nape of my neck and toyed with the hairs which bristled there.

I gasped his name and he smiled against my lips.

“You find it pleasant, yes?”

I tried to nod, but at that moment his other hand moved to the small of my back and he leaned his lanky frame against my torso, pressing me backward onto the bed. I tried to shake my head, knowing it was terribly unwise to continue. I knew I would disappoint, knew I would hurt him again. I was not the manner of man he wanted. And so I made a half-hearted effort to escape his embrace, but he pressed down upon me all the harder and kissed me with intense ardor.

I lost track of time until he pulled back slightly.

For a moment, his flushed face reflected youthful uncertainty. When he parted his lips to speak, the furrowed lines between his eyes reappeared and deepened.

“You must understand the animal was only to frighten me into talking,” he said in a hushed, breathy voice.

For long moments I was certain I had not heard him correctly. I should have asked him to repeat himself immediately, but the pained expression on his face distressed me. I blamed myself for it, certain I had again done something to offend. But for the life of me I could not imagine what.

I shook my head and finally croaked out a “What do you mean?”

Holmes pulled farther away.

“The marks-- when I was at hosp-- you and Doctor Brett thought--”

I closed my eyes and could see again a bruised boy, huddled on the examination table at Radcliffe’s, with terrible marks on his back and sides. I nodded then opened my eyes and sat up. He moved to stand, but I took gentle hold of his arm and drew him to sit next to me.

“I remember now. But ... frighten you into talking? What do you mean by that?” I asked gently.

“That doesn’t matter now,” he said looking away. “I just want you to know that your friend Brett was not entirely accurate in his deduction.”

Holmes’s face no longer bore the crimson flush of pleasure. It was pale, almost too pale. And his upper lip bore an unpleasant sheen. His slender white hands rested on his thighs, the twitching of their long fingers confirming his nervous agitation.

I placed my right hand over his left and he started a bit.

“I thought perhaps that was why you did not wish to be with me,” he said.

And only then did I glean what his remark truly meant.

“You don’t think I would blame you for what happened?”

“Edwards did. He--”

“Edwards is a degenerate,” I huffed.

“Because he prefers men?” Holmes countered, his head lifting in defiance.

“Because he forces unwanted attentions on those either too weak or fearful to offer resistance,” I said and took Holmes’s hand in my own, running my thumb over its knuckles.

Before leaving Oxford, I had made it my business to learn more of the constable’s endeavors—professional and otherwise. What I discovered made my stomach rebel. He routinely hauled in loitering boys and young men on trumped-up charges, detained them for a day or two and threatened or beat them before laying out his personal requirements for “parole.”

I spoke to two youngsters who had been coerced in this manner and they told me of at least a dozen other victims. It was a wonder he tried anything with Holmes as the man apparently had a disgusting appetite for very young boys. One of those who spoke to me was barely twelve and still recovering from his experiences.

“He is the worst kind of invert,” Holmes said, nodding as he watched my thumb trace  along his fine metacarpal bones.

“He is a rabid animal,” I said, recalling the worst of the details the boys told me, “and as such merits a similar fate.”

It was only when Holmes’s other hand gently shook my wrist that I realized my fingers had tightened around his.

“I’m sorry,” I said, as I drew my hand away.

“You are a gentle man, a healer. Such talk from you seems out of character,” Holmes murmured. Then he offered up a small smile. “Although I do recall you possess a fearful temper.”

“Did he- that night with you-- did he try to--”

Holmes shook his head then cocked it to one side as he gazed at me.

“I told you it does not matter. His ... explorations did not exacerbate my injuries, but once I regained my strength, there were to be no further liberties.”

I bolted from the bed and strode across the room. The urge to damage something nearly overwhelmed me. When Holmes moved behind me and touched my shoulder, I failed to compose myself before I turned to face him.

“You see. There are some things it is better not to know,” Holmes said, his hand patting my shoulder.

“Goddamn! Are all queers like that?”

Even as the word escaped my lips I recognized how dreadful it sounded. Holmes jerked his hand away, but I caught it in a tight grip before he could turn away.

“I did not mean you. I meant-- Edwar-- oh, bloody hell!”

For a moment, Holmes’s slender hand was at war with my own ... and winning. I leaned forward and kissed him hard. In the moment, the only thought in my mind was to distract him and keep him from turning away until I could explain.

When I found myself tossed like a ragdoll against the dresser, I knew I had not distracted Holmes. Not at all.

“No, Doctor, not all queers are like that. And not all of us fancy having our mouths mauled by the clumsy advances of an upstanding non-deviant British gentleman,” Holmes spat.

My hand still gripped his and for the life of me I did not know why I still would not relinquish it. My side hurt from the impact with the dresser and I was confident an admirable bruise would soon span my fourth and fifth intercostals.

“Unhand me or I shall certainly shatter your wrist!” Holmes said, his voice sounding precisely as it had when Edwards had touched him.

“Then do so. But afterward, I want to apologize and try to atone for my stupidity,” I said.

He snarled and raised his left hand angrily. But it did not strike.

“Release me,” he whispered, “before good sense abandons us both.”

I released his wrist and he began to turn away.

“Please,” I began. “I would never wish to do anything to offend you. Yet my ... you’re right, I am clumsy. With you I am an utter clod. I don’t know what to do about this-- this--. Don’t understand why I want --”

He glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled. It was neither the dazzle nor the innocent smile, but exceedingly sad. Then he turned to face me, head held high.

“It does not ‘rub off’ if that is what troubles you, Watson. The queerness. Either you are or you are not. One man does not ‘convince’ another to wholly alter his natural inclinations. Neither is simple seduction the solution to what ails you.

He drew a sharp breath and plunged on.

“I held no premeditation by bringing you here. What has occurred has come upon me most unexpectedly. If my unnatural advances have sullied you, I offer heartfelt apology. You are as you are. I am as I am. There are many things about men I know. How to read them. How to please them. How to use such knowledge for my own purpose. About you, however, there is much that eludes me. You should bore me, but quite the opposite is true. A most curious fellow you are indeed.

“Of one thing, I am certain. You are not the manner of man who would expose me to the law. In that, I am fortunate for I have acted quite stupidly with you. It is a rare lapse, I assure you. Most partners never know my true name. I have trusted you with it. But rest easy. I shall trouble you no longer,” Holmes said with no trace of ire.

He turned and moved to the door, but before his hand reached the latch, I was next to him. I knew what I risked by taking his slender hand in my own. Perhaps violence. He was not a patient boy. More frightening than a good thrashing was the other alternative. Even so, I could not deny that it was equal parts excitement and aversion.

I had encountered dandies in London and Oxford. Even in Edinburgh. Mincing men whose mannerisms and speech and wandering eyes left little doubt of their nature.

I did not like them. Was not like them. Could never want one of them.

But this boy ... this boy whom I admired, with whom I desired friendship, with whom I had already committed unnatural acts, this boy was as divergent from those fops as is a regal falcon from a dainty sparrow.

I knew I could not be what he wanted or needed. Ever. But I was not about to lose him.

Notes:

We Two Alone Will Sing: "Come, let's away to prison; We two alone will sing like birds I' th' cage." From King Lear, V, iii, 6-8, spoken by Lear to his daughter, Cordelia, at play’s end while they are prisoners in the British camp. The words express not only his fantasy of spending the rest of his life in prison with her, but his denial of reality—his central trait. Much like our dear Watson during this interlude.

black swans:  Common water-fowl in Australia and brought to Great Britain in the 18^th and 19^th centuries as ornamental birds. Black swans frequently mate for life. If a partner dies, the survivor often continues on alone. However, recent studies show they are not “faithful” to their mates. An interesting side note (for slashers anyway) is “Against Nature?”an exhibition at the University of Oslo Natural History Museum, detailing studies of homosocial pairings throughout the animal kingdom, including those of black swans. Reportedly, male-male black swan pairs have been observed to nest, have sex and preen each other. Male pairs sometimes attract a female, with which they have sex and impregnate. The female’s duty done, the males chase her off, hatch the eggs and raise the young themselves. I couldn’t resist having innocent young Watson “adopt” a male pair of swans.

Lalo: To watch and listen to the beautiful violin piece Holmes plays for Watson, the Andante movement of “Symphonie Espagnole” by Edouard Lalo, visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlWxtkKutD4. The young violinist in the video is quite reminiscent of a youthful Holmes, never more than when he displays astounding composure after breaking a string in the midst of the piece’s last (Rondo) movement (found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFvj0nxtHe0). BRAVO!

Chapter Twenty-three: What's Gone And What's Past Help