Twisted Pair: Part Two

Invaluable Companion

by Liederlady

Notes

I spent perhaps fifteen minutes in the WC, careful when I emerged to peer down the passage toward the rooms of our hostess and her children. While washing, I heard the distinct sound of a child’s delighted giggle outside the water closet door. When I stepped into the passage, I spied a rag doll abandoned on the floor and stooped to pick it up. My attention was then drawn by movement from the open door to our room.

Holmes was perched cross-legged on his makeshift lounge, the blue smoke from his pipe already swirling foggy trails round his aristocratic head. I smiled up at him, confident he was aware of my scrutiny. But he did not acknowledge me.

I sighed; he was perturbed that I had rebuffed his advances. I consigned the doll to the hall table and entered our room, closing the door behind me.

Holmes then invited my opinion as to why St. Clair might wish to conceal his whereabouts if he was alive. We discussed the case and Boone the beggar briefly; I recognized Holmes’s attempt to show there were no hard feelings. But the change in his tone was unmistakable; the earlier warmth was gone replaced by polite preciseness.

I begged off further discussion, invoking exhaustion; after all, it was four in the morning and I had spent a full day at St. Bart’s only to be spirited off on this lark. Holmes reluctantly granted me leave to rest my weary bones and I doused my bedside candle.

Although I closed my eyes and deepened my breathing to feign slumber, I did not immediately fall asleep. Instead though barely cracked eyelids, I surreptitiously watched my friend awhile as he smoked. I was rather surprised to see the door to our room open and a little girl emerge from behind it holding her doll. She smiled up at Holmes like a cherub and I stifled a huff of relief that we had desisted our … wrangling. I knew Holmes would chide me in the morning for failing to lock the door behind me—needlessly—for already I was figuratively kicking myself for my lapse.

Holmes’s expression changed little as he regarded the child, a softening of the gaze and a slight up-curve of lips. Anyone who did not know him as well as I would claim he remained as still and unchanged as a marble figure.

The little girl, however, exhibited the accurate instinct for appraisal with which children are sometimes gifted, smiling sweetly at my friend before backing out the way she came. Holmes took a thoughtful, extended drag of his pipe before unfolding his long legs, walking to the door and locking it. He turned back toward me and regarded my seemingly sleeping form for some time.

He could have been angry, but even in the dim moonlight that lazily filtered in through the window I could read intense affection in the cock of his head, in the curl of his rosy lips, in the avidness of his stance. He moved to the table near his divan, depositing his pipe there. Then he turned back toward my bed and began to silently move across the room.

He stopped short of my bed, simply looking down at me. I dared not move, even to completely close my eyelids or he would know I had been watching him.

I had observed him for years like this; Holmes has chronically crept into my room at Baker Street to watch me sleep even before we became lovers. He certainly understands I have knowledge of this as he would either smoke just before entering my room or, rarely, smoke while there, leaving lingering traces of his presence. Holmes would rarely remain long and, during the nights I actually observed his vigils, would do nothing more than simply watch me ‘sleep.’

Early on, I was troubled by his nocturnal visits as our first days as flat-mates had been … turbulent; but I had grown too diffident to ever bring them up in conversation. As Holmes merely watched me, there seemed little harm to such a habit. I suspected one reason for it, but again, was too uncertain of my own urges—and his demands—to linger long upon such musings.

After our friendship became physical, I pondered questioning him. But by then I knew enough of my friend to understand he would find such an inquiry troubling, perhaps insulting considering he habitually credits me with far more insight than I merit.

Holmes rarely sleeps well unless I sleep with him. The demons from his past often plague him at night, disturbing his already fitful slumber with violent nightmares. When we first became flat-mates, his screams would wrench me from my own slumber and for horrible moments I would forget I lay in the safety of my Baker Street bed, my heart and mind terrifyingly cast back to the grisly battlefield at Maiwand.

When realization finally descended I was, and am, always shocked by the sound of Holmes’s screams, so unlike his normal voice. Even during his most manic or angry moments, Holmes’s voice never resembles that from the nightmares.

He is in utter agony until I reach him to deliver him from it. Once he has somewhat recovered, he is mortified by his ‘weakness’ and deeply contrite for having disturbed me, never failing to notice my trembling despite his own.

Even on the nights I remain with him until dawn’s first rays breach our window and I am forced to depart from him, Holmes can succumb to the terrors, although he admits they are less vivid. Additionally, I am there to effect a more rapid rescue.

In regards to my friend’s nocturnal vigils, I have concluded they are analytical, in part, repetitive observations to prove a theory: that a man plagued by ghastly night terrors of his own past can, eventually, find peace.

My nightmares—most of them—relinquished me years ago. Those I endure now do not end in the screaming fits of old until I awoke or Holmes had shaken me to merciful consciousness. Rather, my current terrors shudder me to silent, but aching alertness. I lie bathed in icy sweat, hands clutching strangled bedcovers, limbs trembling with the residual effects of whatever demise befell or atrocity was perpetrated upon my dearest Holmes within my nocturnal delusion.

Now, as I watch Holmes standing next to my bed in the St. Clair guest bedroom, I question the wisdom of reaching out to him.

Despite our closeness, our devotion to each other, Holmes is still a hard man to approach. My partner prefers to be the one to initiate and dominate our lovemaking and I accept that need, not only due to his past, but his innate compulsion to control everything and everyone. Also troublesome is Holmes’s wildly unpredictable receptiveness to emotional nurturing. Nothing sends my friend into either a distracting rant or deeper into self-imposed isolation quicker than a blatantly comforting overture.

Holmes is a trying lover. Just why he is continues to painfully twist my innards.

He is also supremely worthy of any effort required to make our partnership—professional, physical and emotional—work.

Holmes’s hand extends toward my head. For a moment, I wonder if he knows I am observing him. I decide that if he touches me, I will draw him down into a rough embrace.

But his hand draws back before reaching me. He turns and moves away to settle himself back on his former perch across the room. I sigh aloud.

It little matters now if he knows I am still awake.

“Sleep well, dear fellow,” he whispers before striking match to flint and lighting his pipe.

I cannot help my smirk as my eyes finally close. I am a foolish man to imagine I can ever deceive Sherlock Holmes.

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

When I heard my lover call my name, I felt strangely disoriented and could not understand why Holmes was in our sitting-room instead of in bed with me. When he called again, in his teasing singsong, I decided to remain abed and compel him to come upstairs to me. Waking up to a delighted, but demanding Sherlock Holmes is indeed a stirring experience.

The odd tickle at my foot roused me to total wakefulness and I realized I had been half dreaming. I looked down at my foot, thrust out from under the bedcovers, and saw a gloved hand pulling away from it.

I was not in my Baker Street room; nor was Holmes in the sitting-room. He was slouched against the footrail of the bed in which I lay, completely dressed to go out with a smug smile of expectation plastered on his face.

“What time is it?” I asked, glancing over toward my watch on the bedside table. It was only then that I recalled precisely where we were. The Cedars.

“Dawn,” he answered as I checked my watch.

“I’ve only had two hours sleep!”

Holmes smiled indulgently at me.

“I wonder if you’d do me the very great kindness of considering the possibility of waking up?” he said in the beckoning tone which rarely fails to further stir my morning readiness. Oblivious to both the contradictory implication of his dressed state and my sleepless irritation, my cock blindly responded to Holmes’s seductive voice.

Dazed a bit, I wiped sleep crust from my lips before asking, “I assume you have a good reason.”

“Are you game for a drive?”

“Certainly, but does it have to be this early?” I replied, hoping for a reprieve or at least the chance of him shedding a layer or two of clothing for half an hour.

“I have a little theory that I wish to test,” he said, wholly ignoring my question.

“Is anyone’s life at stake?” I asked. The surprise of being awakened had now departed, replaced by indignation at, once again, being the butt of one of Holmes’s imperious whims. It was abundantly clear his “theory” had nothing to do with the state of my libido.

“Certainly not,” he answered honestly. Well, that was something at least.

“Would it be possible to test your theory a little later this morning?”

The question might well have been rhetorical; I already knew the answer from the manic glint in his eyes. He was on to something and no amount of persuasion would deter him.

“I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes,” Holmes replied smugly, then turned and swept out the door.

“Five minutes,” I mumbled and sank back onto my pillow in exasperation. Five minutes would hardly be enough time to tend to personal needs.

It was nine minutes later when I hustled out the door of The Cedars and into the carriage where Holmes waited, reins in hand and an impatient pout upon his lips.

I glared at him as I settled back into the seat. He appeared completely unruffled.

“Come on, Nelson,” Holmes cheerfully called to the horse and we were off to ‘test’ his blasted theory. As we passed the stable boy rubbing sleep from his bleary eyes, I nodded my thanks to him and rolled my own weary eyes in empathy. We had not even taken time to notify our hostess of our departure, although I had noted an envelope addressed to her in Holmes’s hand upon the foyer table.

The dawn was foggy and exceedingly damp for June, the chill quickly traveling to the bone. Normally, I would huddle closer to my companion, both to warm myself and him as Holmes suffers from cold weather far more than me. But I was decidedly upset with him. He had obviously learned nothing from the previous evening’s events. His concern over my reaction to his blatant disregard of our dinner plans had dissolved along with my ire.

I had been far too indulgent and forgiving of him and this was the result.

“You have the grand gift of silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion,” Holmes said condescendingly after a lengthy, uncomfortable span of ‘grand gift.’

I was motionless, intending to remain ‘invaluable.’

His response, a few moments later, was to shift himself closer to me. But I was having none of it and pressed myself as close to the side of the carriage as was physically possible. Holmes, acknowledging my rebuke, moved to the opposite end of the seat.

“Watson, you are in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe,” Holmes cried several minutes later. The words, not to mention the altered tone with which he delivered them, belied his calm exterior. My silence was beginning to chafe.

“You exaggerate, Holmes,” I mumbled sarcastically, actually pleased I was getting under his skin.

“I should be kicked from here to Charing Cross,” he continued.

“The moment you woke me up I would have been glad to …”

“I have the key, Watson, here in this Gladstone bag,” he shouted, wisely interrupting me. He raised the bag in question and darted a curious glance back at me.

I sighed and gazed out at the bleak landscape whizzing by in a murky haze. I leaned my head against the carriage hood and closed my eyes, a bit lulled by the jerking movement of our ride. I pulled the carriage rug up over my waist, burrowing my hands into my coat pockets for warmth.

It could not have been but a few moments later when I sensed a probing pressure at my private parts. I stifled a smirk and kept my eyes closed. If Holmes thought he could elicit an amorous response from me despite the combined frostiness of both air and my mood, he was sorely mistaken.

I felt my coat fall to either side of my hips then his fingers fumbling at my flies. Holmes is normally quite adept at such tasks, so his current dearth of dexterity implied he still wore his gloves.

That painted a heady image in my mind.

I cracked open an eye and glanced down to confirm my deduction. He had pushed aside my shielding rug and managed to work open three of my flies. I shifted my hand in my pocket, debating whether to assist him or brush his hand away.

“Don’t!” Holmes said, his voice rough. I immediately halted my motion.

I opened both eyes and glanced up at him.

He was in profile, eyes resolutely on the road, as his gloved fingers continued their task of revealing me. His face appeared calm, but I could detect motion in the muscles of his pale jaw.

Another button had been undone. Now his fingers spread the wool fabric and slid in to work at my cotton drawers. The thinner fabric did little to fend off the air’s chill.

My morning erection had characteristically waned with my hurried ablutions. Holmes’s current ministrations were not tactilely arousing, but as is so often the case with my partner, his intent alone was sufficiently stirring. Then there was the glove.

I was already half erect.

When Holmes finally opened my drawers and withdrew me, the cold took its toll. I heard him chuckle under his breath. My eyes shot up to see he had taken his eyes from the road to glance down at my diminishing member.

Then his leather-clad fingers began working to restore me. His other hand, holding the reins, flicked them expertly at the horse’s rump.

“Hup, boy!” Holmes shouted and the horse picked up his trot. Then Holmes darted a peculiar glance at me as his fingers squeezed and pulled hard. “Hup!” he said again, his intent unmistakable.

Without hesitation, I bucked myself forward into his gloved hand and heard a rumble of satisfaction rise from deep in his chest. The blasted, arrogant, manipulative …

The buttery glide of his glove was decadently glorious.

He left off a moment to completely jerk away the rug that lay across my legs then further opened my flies, completely exposing me.

“Holm--”

“Silence!” he hissed.

As if to reinforce the demand, his rein hand reached down toward the footrest and grasped the long, thin horsewhip from its clip. I watched, wide-eyed, as his right-hand fingers wielded the working end to dangle over my groin while the fingers, stroking me, angled my length to brush the thin strips of leather.

I looked up at his face. It was expressionless, except for his glittering eyes.

Holmes was stroking me firmly now. His rein hand deftly twirled the whip and struck the horse’s rump with it.

“Hup!”

The horse stepped up to a canter. And my hips began rising from the seat in time with his pace.

Holmes flicked the reins and struck out again with the whip. The horse whinnied, galloping now.

I bucked myself faster in counterpoint to the motion of Holmes’s gloved hand, my eyes rapt by its black blur against my white flesh. We suddenly swerved to the left and I was buffeted against the side of the carriage. The left wheel bumped off the road bed and Holmes’s hand squeezed tight round my shaft as the rocking movement threw him against my right hip. My eyes darted up toward his face. His jaw clenched and he struggled for a moment with the reins pulling to the right, guiding horse and carriage back on to the road. For a brief moment he overcompensated and we slipped off the opposite berm.

When both wheels regained the road, the whip flicked out again to spur the horse back to his previous gallop then past it to breakneck speed.

I was panting now, from my partner’s attentions and the ride. I suddenly realized my hands were still thrust within my coat pockets. I was still obeying Holmes’s initial command. I looked over at my lover to find his eyes, glinting with feral excitement, riveted to my face.

Holmes leaned into me and crushed a bruising kiss to my lips, his tongue thrusting into my mouth. He did not linger as we both felt the carriage sway to the left. When he pulled away from me, my eyes were immediately drawn toward the road.

“Holmes!” I cried.

Another carriage was heading toward us.

“Quiet,” Holmes said in a low voice. Simultaneously, he continued stroking my member and pulled back slightly on the reins. For a mad moment, I feared he would actually stop the carriage.

The oncoming carriage, a dog cart with two occupants, progressed at a normal speed, unlike ours. Finally, I pulled my hands from my coat, striving to jerk Holmes’s hand from my turgid member. His grip tightened painfully.

“NO!”

“Holmes--”

He silenced me with a look.

Holmes reined in the horse to a controlled canter and as the dog cart neared us he pulled the carriage off the left side of the road coming to a sudden stop under a large oak. Through the entire maneuver, his rhythmic pumping of my member never missed a beat.

He glanced out the small rear window of the carriage before he leaned over me once more for a fierce kiss.

I gripped the shoulders of his coat, pulling him closer to me. His lusty growl spurred me to pump my hips harder into his gloved hand. His right hand reached up to grasp my jaw, the leather-clad fingers pressing hard. Later in the day, a colorful bruise would sprout along the path his thumb was making.

My breath came in frantic gasps under his onslaught. Holmes’s right hand abandoned my jaw and his mouth left mine for a moment. However, his eyes would not yet release me.

“Now, Watson, now!” Holmes growled and pulled slightly back.

My hips arched from the seat and I spent into Holmes’s gloved hand, both of us watching as my essence oozed over the fine black leather. The erotic image alone was enough to force my gut-deep groan. Holmes’s right hand produced his handkerchief to absorb my overspill, but after that I knew little for several moments.

My eyes closed, my chest heaved and my head lolled back against the carriage’s rear cushion, my hips jerking their last while Holmes tended to me. Somewhere within my afterglow, the thought of reciprocation arose, but my mind was far too muddled to conjure any concrete thought of how or when.

Suddenly, I felt the carriage rug being tossed over me and tucked in securely under my hips. I kept my eyes closed, a sarcastic smile curling my lips. My breath was still coming in gasps, but I possessed enough to tease my lover.

“So now you’re concerned about the cold’s effect upon my person?” I mumbled.

“Certainly, Doctor, you appear quite pale,” I heard Holmes reply.

Holmes, despite his own excitement, had remained completely aware of our circumstances. Unbeknownst to me, he had observed the dog cart which we had passed, slow, make a wide turn and head toward where we had stopped.

“Halloa, is ever’thing a’right?” a strange, hearty male voice called out.

My eyes shot open to see Holmes’s pale face peering at me. A smirk quirked his lips for an instant as my eyes widened then he turned toward the sound of the voice.

“Hello sir. Yes, my companion had quite a frenzied moment, but I believe he is recovering,” Holmes said smoothly, glancing a feigned look of concern back to me. Then he winked.

“Sick is he?” the rough voice said.

“He felt a bit dizzy. Now, my friend, perhaps you’ll heed me the next time I implore you to eat a hearty breakfast prior to departure,” Holmes said in a chiding voice.

My mouth opened then closed a few times. I would find a way to make Holmes pay for this.

At that moment, I nodded mutely. He flashed a smile at me before turning to whoever was in the other cart.

“We heartily thank you and your family for turning back to offer assistance, sir. Most kind,” Holmes said graciously, tipping his hat. Then he leaned out to shake a beefy fist which thrust into view.

“Sure ya’ need no help then?” the other man said.

“Oh no. My friend will be fine once he takes in more of your bracing Kent air,” Holmes trilled. His knee pressed hard against my thigh.

I leaned forward to peer out of the carriage, careful to keep a tight grip on the plaid rug that concealed our ruination. A large barrel-chested, red-maned man of perhaps twenty-five held the reins. Next to him sat a plain-faced petite young woman with mousy hair hanging out of a rumpled bonnet. Her arms cradled a swaddled, slumbering, pink-skinned babe.

“Many thanks for your concern. I’m sorry to have delayed your journey,” I said, touching my hat to the lady.

“Ah, there y’are. No worry then sir. Ya’ look stronger a’ready than when we seen ya when yer passed.”

I gulped at that bit of intelligence. The plain-faced girl nodded her agreement. I beamed down at the infant in her arms and the girl blushed and smiled.

“Yes, fine. I just need some breakfast and a good night’s sleep,” I said, throwing a perturbed look Holmes’s way at this last part.

“Good health to ya’ both gent’l’men,” the man called and waved his goodbye. Then he flicked the reins, spurring his draft horse back toward the road.

We watched as the bend in the road took them out of sight, Holmes leaning a bit toward me as he ensured their departure. His posture was a bit awkward and I took advantage of the opportunity that presented.

In one movement, I swept off Holmes’s homburg, tossing it to the floor, roughly pushed him far back in the seat and followed through, pressing my weight against him before he could react.

He began that barking laugh of his until my violent kiss silenced it, my hand cradling the back of his head so he could not twist away. His hands pawed a moment at my shoulders then wrapped round them, striving to pull me closer.

By the time I let him up for air, he desperately required my mercy. While I let him breathe, I did up my drawers and trousers to make myself decent once more. My bowler had been dislodged during our kiss; I ran a shaky hand through my hair before firmly pulling it down on my head. Then I retrieved Holmes’s homburg from the carriage floor and handed it to him.

“So, this theory of yours wouldn’t have anything to do with what just happened, would it?” I asked snidely. My friend shook his head mutely, still delightfully glassy-eyed. I felt a surge of triumph.

No one in the world but I could render him thus.

“Then where are we headed? Back to London?” I asked, retrieving the reins from where Holmes had dropped them.

He nodded. “Bow Street police station,” he said in a subdued, but husky voice.

I nodded and flicked the reins to Nelson’s rump.

“HUP!” I shouted, shooting a meaningful glance at Holmes. When we finally got back to Baker Street, I thought, I would have to devise a suitable rejoinder to his antics of the morning.

Part Three: Better To Learn Wisdom Late