Harry: Chapter Twenty-four

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf

by Liederlady

Notes

My efforts to draw Watson out of doors to enjoy the improving, albeit cooler, weather proved unsuccessful. He declined the invitation to join me when I ventured out to indulge the mare in another brush down and when I purposely lingered at the task, he failed to grow curious and investigate my lengthy absence.

A frustrating development, indeed.

Upon my return, I find the good doctor has taken up residence in one of the sitting-room chairs, engaging in a brown study of the empty chair opposite him.

“It’s grown quite chilly,” I remark upon entering the sitting-room, but Watson appears not to have heard. I set about building a fire, ensuring I remain within his sight line. Yet he continues staring, pensive and uncharacteristically uncommunicative.

Having little better to do, I don my dressing-gown, sprawl myself comfortably on the sofa with cigarette-case, matches and ashtray within easy reach, and set to observing the not-uninteresting form of my companion. Contrary to my usual mood, I delight in the relative ease with which I can read the gentleman’s inner thoughts. It is an old and instinctive habit of mine; however one I generally find tedious—or, I should say, my typical subjects are tedious. Not so Watson, for the fellow’s frank, amenable facial features are not the sole source of data.

Watson’s neck and shoulders serve as living signposts as to his internal emotions. In his current stressed state, the thick sternocleidomastoid and sternal head muscles of his neck stand out in sharp relief, the striking columns of sinew flexing as his head moves this way and that, scrutinizing the empty chair or the fire or his restless hands. The trapezoids of the broad shoulders are so taut that they twitch most alarmingly.

I confess to preferring Watson’s shoulders’ typical state: undeniably attention-drawing and so square-set steady that I harbor little doubt the man could balance a billiard ball on each with no effort whatever while traversing a sandy beach being buffeted by a squall.

‘A soldier’s bearing, yet not even a month at the task,’ I muse.

To my thinking, Watson’s shoulders invite either a seductive caress or companionable squeeze. More than once during the hour I observe him that afternoon, I am forced to stay my hands from doing either. A confounding situation.

Of course, the man’s facial expressions alone amply convey his turmoil. Watson’s lips take on a sad, wistful set, speaking silently of his red-haired paramour. It is obvious she was that, albeit a foolish, fickle, promiscuous one to abandon the favors of a man such as Watson. From what I learned of the titled dandy she wed, it seems Fate dealt with her justly for her shabby treatment of the troubled, striking man sitting across the room from me.

An individual such as Watson requires no title to proclaim nobility.

Now the lip graced by his trim moustache has curled, belying my friend’s renewed musing upon Constable Edwards. I should not have shared so much of my encounter with that brute lest Watson misinterpret the extent of our association. However, my companion accurately surmised the constable’s character—or dearth thereof. A coward’s appetite intensifies in direct proportion to the helplessness of his prey. All the more strange that Edwards found Watson appealing. On that last day at Radcliffe’s, the constable’s lewd ogling of the good doctor sufficiently merited his thrashing. Indeed, I should have clouted the beast within an inch of his life for the merest base inkling regarding Watson.

I unclench my fists and force my jaw to relax before a headache threatens. As for Watson, his thoughts of Edwards are receding judging from the crease between his dignified brows and the way his engaging blue eyes wince close. His strong, surgeon’s fingers twitch upon his brawny thigh then move to the chair’s upholstered arm in a white-knuckled grip. Eventually, the fingers of his right hand rise to absently stroke at his lips. When those lips part and nearly admit the fingers, I stifle a knowing smile.

Watson does make a conscious effort to move his fingers from his lips, but they hover there with a will all their own, retreating only after the tip of the doctor’s tongue emerges to swipe across his bottom lip.

It does not require an acutely observant nature to deduce that far more than memories of our amorous activities of the previous night and this morning are stirring when my companion’s athletic legs suddenly cross and a bright flush swiftly suffuses his face, ears and entirely too sturdy neck.

I cannot blame him. The trail of his thoughts leads me toward a similar state. Unlike Watson, however, I position myself advantageously, allowing the decorous drape of my dressing-gown to slip toward the floor.

At that juncture, I reach for my cigarette case and casually offer one to the flustered man seated across from me. I also unveil one of my more inviting smiles. Watson startles at the sound of my voice and looks over at my display. Such an obliging fellow.

His eyes flutter over the length of my form, from shoes to shoulders and hitch slightly at my midsection. But, as he declines my offer, Watson’s gaze fails to meet my own.

I sigh. That sound, too, discomfits him, prompting pursed lips. After a moment’s consideration and a glance at my watch, I swing my legs to the floor and inform Watson I shall drive to the inn to retrieve our supper.

“No, I should go, Holmes. You’re still limping a bit on that foot,” Watson replies, surprising me with the observation. “I meant to examine you, but I was reluct--”

He trails off with a serious frown, and still will not look up at me. Instead, his gaze seems consumed with the spill of dressing-gown at my feet, his head cocks slightly as I rise.

“Yes, I believe we both became distracted earlier,” I say, exaggerating the limp somewhat as I stride toward him. When I reach his chair, I can no longer refrain from clasping his right shoulder, which flexes beneath my fingers.

Finally, Watson’s gaze ascends to meet mine. The black pupils are rather blown and I permit him to notice my own gaze flick to the juncture of his still-crossed legs. The doctor’s eyes dip fractionally before he coughs and carefully adjusts the angle at which his right thigh crosses his left.

At that moment, the excuse of an examination of my foot by the good doctor would prove fortuitous, obliging him to rise and reveal his aroused state. I would welcome Watson’s touch, even in a clinical capacity. As he is reluctantly susceptible to my physical charms, the opportunity to transform that contact from innocent to intimate--

Seducing the man again would be simplicity itself.

Thus I quite surprise myself by withdrawing my hand from his shoulder and admitting, “I am fine, Watson. Any remaining discomfort is trifling. You remain here and I shall return shortly with our repast.”

~~~~~~~~~

My mood during the trip to the village inn was pensive, reflecting upon my uncharacteristic reactions to Watson’s charms. Yet on my return trip, the smells escaping the supper basket prompt only entertaining recollections of my friend’s prodigious appetite. The succulent aromas even begin to entice my own. Regardless, I shall demur partaking in hopes that Watson will again cajole me into eating. As I conjure thoughts of his entreating voice, I start whistling a lilting melody for the mare, whose ears prick back toward me.

My tune, however, swiftly dies as I steer the gig within three hundred yards of the admiral’s cottage and catch sight of a solitary figure standing at the side of the road. The figure’s posture, height and movement as he maneuvers his stick in an elliptical pattern just above the gravel triggers bile to rise and burn my throat, banishing all thoughts of hunger or pleasantries.

“What do you want?” I ask roughly, reining in the mare directly adjacent to the man. In the event he moves quickly, a swift right jerk of the reins will send the horse’s head and neck crashing into him.

I spare Moriarty’s somber, but deftly tailored, attire a cursory glance—black trousers, top hat and frock-coat all in cashmere. The man suffers a fearsome skin reaction to sheep’s wool.

I observe no evident indication of a revolver under the coat, therefore either the right sleeve or a hip holster likely conceals his derringer, with which he is a crack shot. The professor’s couture rounds out with black damask waist-coat, Irish linen shirt, grey silk cravat, immaculate dress boots which belie that he arrived by the gravel road rather than cross the dune. In the man’s left hand is his silver-handled stick—replete with secreted dagger. Memories of the icy delight of that blade spur a tingle at my left breast.

After scanning my opponent, I flick a glance toward my own stick with its loaded silver knob. It has served me well in the past, but with far less imposing antagonists. I casually lower my rein hand, keeping Moriarty’s right hand in my peripheral vision. Should it rise to take aim, my stick’s length shall be sufficient to at least deflect it. I lift my eyes to take in the professor’s face. Carved into his pale lips is his rare, broad smile, but his obsidian eyes are not directed at me.

Only then do I realize my error and dart a look toward the cottage.

Framed within the white doorway is Watson, conversing with a tall, powerfully built, russet-haired man with military bearing. The man is dressed in dark brown and leaning upon an impressive Indian rosewood walking-stick topped by a turned knob. I know that stick, but suppress the wince prompted by its memory.

However, the stick commands but an instant’s attention. When I first met him, Colonel Moran had only recently arrived from India and his sartorial style left much to be desired. It is obvious he now frequents Moriarty’s tailor, a most gifted craftsman. Moran’s brown frock coat is so artfully cut that none but I would recognize, even at a closer distance, the subtle bulge of a holstered revolver under his right arm.

I school my expression into a cool, unaffected mask before turning back to Moriarty, whose regard has finally turned toward me. I repeat my initial query, which again goes unanswered as he toys with my limited patience. Instead, the professor’s head turns slowly from me toward the cottage. He smiles again.

“Appealing. Not as glamorous as your last. Your tastes are evolving,” he says.

“Mmm. He’s proven to be frightfully parochial,” I reply. “I’ve been trapped in that cottage for more than a day with the dullard. Obviously, I was misinformed as to his proclivities,” I drawl with a disdainful sniff. “Your lapdog will learn little beyond the unexpected circumstance of having discovered a kindred spirit.”

Moriarty swivels his head back toward me, amusement clearly visible in the dark eyes.

“My house guest also evinces a partiality for cadavers,” I explain derisively.

Moriarty’s lips twitch; his version of a chuckle.

“The estimable colonel possesses a wealth of diverse experience or have you forgotten? I’m certain he’d be willing to personally take your strapping young doctor in hand,” the professor says smoothly. “Ah, but he’s bound for India soon, yes?”

Concealing any overt reaction to the revelation that Moriarty has investigated Watson is simple; controlling my breathing, slightly more difficult to manage. But I have no power over other physical manifestations of my distress, namely the contraction of my testicles closer to my body. With any other opponent, I would be unconcerned. But I have personally witnessed the objectionable consequences of Moriarty’s wrath and Moran’s meting out of same.

I shrug noncommittally, but glance again toward Watson. He appears to be listening to whatever Moran is saying, but from the doctor’s posture, I can tell he has noted my return. Whether he recognizes Moriarty as the man he encountered yesterday on the beach, I cannot discern. What is obvious is my friend’s extreme tension.

“After some intensive, accelerated coaching, I imagine the colonel would be amenable to alerting some of his Indian comrades to your friend’s arrival and engage them to continue the doctor’s training,” Moriarty drawls, his black eyes again assessing me.

“I shall ask only once more, what do you want?” I say, affecting a bored tone.

“I taught you better than that. This isn’t the prime moment to employ subterfuge, Holmes. Really now. Tactics matter.”

“What you mistake as subterfuge is a combination of boredom and impatience.”

Moriarty directs his attention once more toward Watson and Moran. I refrain from doing so. It is vital that my opponent remains ignorant as to Watson’s true worth to me. As the tip of the professor’s tongue emerges to run across his top lip, I barely contain the impulse to strike him with the horsewhip.

“I warned you long ago your rashness would be your undoing. I see you’ve not sufficiently indulged the morphine to curb your impulses. Did your new dalliance fail to procure an adequate supply?” Moriarty states, his eyes still on the doctor.

I do not answer, but continue staring, wordlessly demanding the answer to my initial question. Moriarty squares his body and faces me, his black eyes narrowing slightly.

“Very well, Holmes. It is apparent you continue to require sufficiently challenging outlets for your mental prowess and equally suitable avenues for your physical pursuits. As I proved adept at providing for your needs, I invite you to return to the fold.”

My confounded expression at his outrageous and unprecedented proposal does not deter him.

“My constraints were not such a hardship. I rarely demanded your physical services. Your strategic skills were of far more value. I even sanctioned your energetic diversions with your reckless informer, Antoine. Indeed, those activities proved occasionally advantageous to my ventures, if you recall. Although I must inform you, considering the implications of your past predilections, you may require a new consort for Antoine is rather submissive these days. As you doubtless realize, my lad, the gravity of his disloyalty required a suitably severe atonement.”

“I am not ‘your lad,’ Mister Moriarty,” I hiss, enraged that I had not sufficiently shielded my prior associate. I can only imagine what the professor had Moran do to him. Leaning toward Moriarty from the gig, I direct an index finger in his direction, knowing he will consider the gesture as great an affront as spittle on his face.

“All I am to you is an adversary. Return to your sphere of influence? Rather I vow that I will certainly be your undoing.”

His smile fades and he turns to regard me, his head cocked to the right as though I present an entirely new branch of mathematical inquiry. My bile threatens once more as I ponder how I had ever considered this misshapen, malevolent, brilliant and intuitive tyrant the least bit seductive.

“I see I committed a rare error. I should have permitted the colonel to fully indulge his time-honored disciplinary methods. I thought to spare you, you impudent boy,” Moriarty says in a deadly calm voice.

“You should have spared the Thatcher children,” I cry, and flick a quick glance toward Watson, who is now clearly monitoring my interaction with Moriarty. His body is turned toward us and away from Moran.

Such posture is foolhardy. Dangerous. Potentially deadly, if Moriarty chooses to escalate our encounter. But I can hardly fault the good doctor; he is no fool—merely another innocent endangered by association with me.

“There you overestimated your significance and should cease assuming any culpability, son,” Moriarty drawls. I look back to him and observe he had followed my own gaze. “I assure you the motive for the Thatcher incident occurred long before you and I met or formed any liaison.”

His voice is inflectionless. As though the deaths of three children held no more import than whether he should order kippers or bangers with breakfast.

“As for your impudence, I will not, in future, inhibit the colonel’s keen instincts. He always understood that your physical assets were secondary to your mental attributes. He was also correct that those assets contribute to your outrageous behavior. Such a complication is no longer acceptable or required. There are many others possessed of sufficient appeal to ply my business targets when necessary.” At this, the professor smiles again in Watson’s direction.

“As for our private business, your prior susceptibility to the poppy’s yoke rendered you acquiescent to my preferences, whether for intellectual or physical service. It shall be so again. Ask prettily and I may consent to bringing your medical friend along. As I could not help noting yesterday, the gentleman is possessed of ample natural attributes, willingness notwithstanding. Frankly, such reluctance could easily be mitigated through familiarity with the needle. Don’t you agree? I am aware of several interested parties who would compete quite spiritedly for the opportunity to sport with so athletic yet unpracticed a partner. Once your friend garnered sufficient suitors and earned his keep, I might occasionally be persuaded to permit you to enjoy his favors.”

As I glare down at Moriarty, I judge whether I might grasp and swing my walking-stick to crack his skull before his bullet fells me. The gamble would be worth the candle save for one complication.

Whether I am successful or no, Moran would surely wreak retribution on Watson. That risk is sufficient to stay my hand.

Shortly, Moriarty tilts his head back up toward me, and I recognize the look in his black eyes, one I witnessed several times during our prior association during high stakes standoffs with other opponents. The professor has been goading me into provoking an altercation that would endanger my friend.

After a moment—the moment I require to compose myself—his brows furrow in genuine surprise.

“How interesting. You were never so tolerant of vulgarity before,” Moriarty says with as close to a laugh as the man ever comes. “Either you are tempted to accept aspects of my offer or the doctor means more to you than you claim. Or perhaps both?”

Before I can protest, he gestures at the brim of his hat, turns swiftly and begins walking off in the same direction I have just come. I flick the reins, startling the mare, but she immediately settles and takes up an obedient trot toward the cottage. Moran tips his hat to Watson and begins striding toward me, his mouth set in a snide line beneath his bushy moustache.

As we pass one another, he calls out a familiar obscenity before lashing out with his stick, deftly knocking my own from the carriage to clatter down upon the ground. I am jostled as the rear wheels traverse it before I can draw the mare to a halt. It is then I see Watson running full-tilt toward me.

I alight from the gig and turn defensively to monitor what I hope to be the retreating form of Moran. The colonel saunters toward the professor as though free from any worldly care. By the time I glance back toward Watson, he slides to a stop before me on the gravel path, his assessing eyes running my length. His hands firmly grasp my biceps for a moment as he stares hard into my eyes.

“You’re unharmed.” It is not a question. I grin agreement, relieved to have Watson safe and separated from the colonel.

And then the doctor releases me and, with speed and agility which I would not have credited a man his size, pivots and takes off after Moran. My friend is swift, but no match for me, and I overtake him easily, grasping a shoulder to pull him off-balance and toward me.

“Let me go,” he growls, as he strives to shake my grasp and nearly succeeds. “Blackguard struck you.”

I am forced to employ a little-used maneuver to control him. When Watson finds his right arm twisted behind his back and the fingers of his left hand uncomfortably restrained, he growls again in frustration and struggles mightily against the hold, but he’s no longer in pursuit of Moran. And no longer at risk of stopping a bullet.

“Calm yourself. He struck out at my stick, not me,” I assure him. Indeed, had it been Moran’s intent to strike me, likely my body, not my stick, would have tumbled from the carriage.

“He-- he insulted you,” Watson whispers, his tone a bizarre mixture of ferocity and embarrassment. The epithet Moran used was one not typically directed toward a male. When a heated flush rises in my face, I am eminently grateful Watson is turned from me.

“He’s a military type, Watson. I trust you’ll not pick up such coarse language during your tenure,” I try to quip airily. Watson’s struggles do not cease, yet once the fire in my face cools, I relinquish my unorthodox hold on him. But I tightly clutch his biceps in the event he again tries to sprint off with mayhem in mind.

The doctor continues to glare toward the diminishing figure of Moran, who has caught up with his hunched companion. They do not so much as spare us a backward glance.

“Who are they?” Watson asks, his voice still rough with anger. “The one you spoke to looked to be the man from the beach yesterday. Same height and deformity.”

“It’s very possible,” I say. There is little sense in lying. “They are former acquaintances. Rather unpleasant sorts as you doubtless inferred.”

Finally, Watson turns toward me. I see the question in his eyes but, to the man’s credit, it does not reach his lips.

“I presume the person with whom you were conversing was asking after me?” I inquire.

The immediate dip in Watson’s gaze speaks volumes. Moran never was skilled in the art of tact. I deem it likely his discussion of me proved exceptionally unflattering. Not that I expect to hear so from Watson.

In answer to my query, my friend simply nods, his lips purse and his gaze locks upon the narrow strip of fine gravel that separates us. I release his biceps and am frankly relieved that he stands his ground, although he does unleash another scorching glance down the road.

“Why don’t you take the supper basket and begin laying out our feast while I unhitch the mare, my dear fellow?”

I do not manage to wholly banish the lilt of entreaty from my voice. Now that Watson’s safety is ensured, I am more shaken by the risk of losing his regard than by the confrontation with Moriarty.

Watson’s glance slides from the retreating figures of Moran and Moriarty toward me. He is clearly mulling over the ugly implications of my unsavory acquaintances and Moran’s graphic insult.

I am not the manner of man to shrink from awkward encounters, but at that moment I am tempted. Regardless, I meet Watson’s gaze. Whatever judgment he chooses to make I shall meet as well.

“All right, Holmes. Don’t tarry too long or I shall come out to check on you,” he says, glancing back down the road one last time for good measure.

I cannot suppress my sigh of relief, and shake my head in disbelief. Watson’s constancy seems the stuff of ancient Greek parables.

“That I shall, my dear fellow. That I shall,” I reply and guide his elbow with my right hand as my left takes hold of the harness to lead the mare. Our walk back to the cottage is conducted in silence.

Notes:

He’s Mad that Trusts In the Tameness of a Wolf: “He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.” From King Lear, Act III, Scene iv. This line is spoken by the Fool in a chiding manner to Lear regarding the monarch’s foolishness in trusting his duplicitous offspring. Of course, the reasoning in our title refers to Holmes’ belated awareness of Moriarty’s treachery. My real question: What’s up with the Fool questioning a boy’s love? Hmmm.

To be continued...