Twisted Pair: Part Three

Better To Learn Wisdom Late

by Liederlady

Notes

The rest of our journey progressed in near silence and at a saner pace. Holmes eventually took back the reins and wordlessly urged me to lean back against his shoulder for a nap.

“Not safe,” I protested.

“I shall be alert,” was all he said, as though he could ever be otherwise.

Holmes crooked his left arm up, hand guiding my head to its resting-place. His hand was now bared; he had wrapped his soiled glove within his handkerchief, tossing both in the Gladstone. I peeled off my left glove and slipped it over his chilled flesh. My hands are larger than his, but only close inspection would reveal the ill fit.

“Dearest,” he trilled sotto before laying the hand on my thigh with a chuckle.

I tucked my bare hand deep in my coat pocket and closed my eyes. I was soon lulled by the combination of our swaying motion, Holmes’s warmth and the rare sighs I heard arising from him.

He roused me when the hour began turning out other travelers.

“Watson, lean back against the seat cushion, my dear fellow,” Holmes said, his hand again urging me to do his bidding.

After that, I only dozed.

When we arrived at Bow Street, Holmes was again aquiver with excitement, his mind focused solely upon the case. His dramatic revelation of Boone the Beggar as the “missing” Neville St. Clair is something I shall recount in a public tale with, of course, the requisite alterations and deletions.

After the explanation of the case in Bradstreet’s office, we met with Mrs. St. Clair, who had come down to London after the noon hour, as Holmes had instructed in the note he left her. We saw the lady reunited with her contrite and rather embarrassed husband. She was overjoyed he was safe and unharmed, but held her reaction to the cause of his disappearance admirably. I had little doubt, however, that Neville St. Clair would receive not only a gay reception of welcome but spirited remarks from his wife upon returning to his Kent villa.

However, Mrs. St. Clair was effusive in her praise of and gratitude toward Holmes and me. I was granted a polite, but sincere hug. She nearly embraced my friend as well, but caught herself when she astutely observed his stiff anticipation of her advance. Instead, she graciously held out her hand which Holmes chivalrously lifted to his lips.

My lover can be quite the gallant knight when he so chooses.

It was rather late in the afternoon when we actually reached Baker Street, close to supper-time. Mrs. Hudson had fretted about what had become of me, so Holmes and I were both roundly scolded for not notifying her that we had met and sprinted off to Kent on a case.

“And to what sort of ruffians did you expose the doctor? Why, look at that bruise upon his jaw. Honestly, Mr. Holmes, have you no consideration for his safety?” Mrs. Hudson asked. It took a moment for me to realize what she meant.

“You worry about the good doctor, but not about me, is that it, Mrs. Hudson?” Holmes teased, arching an eyebrow my way over her head. It was clear his intent was to distract her from the condition of my jaw.

“You! Why should I worry about you? You who take off with no explanation at a moment’s notice and are away for days or weeks at a time? Who should worry about you?” she chided then shooed us up our seventeen steps mumbling about having to stretch a meager supper and that it would serve us right if she made us go without.

I was exhausted, but having missed both breakfast and lunch I could not pass on another meal. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson was good enough to scrounge quite a fair repast of heated beef sandwiches in gravy, boiled potatoes, candied carrots and ginger cake soaked in Grand Marnier as a dessert. The latter was definitely an effort to appease Holmes’s notorious weakness; he fancied confections seasoned with ginger. No doubt dessert was intended to lure my gaunt friend to eat something.

Not that Mrs. Hudson ever worried about Sherlock Holmes.

Actually, Holmes ate far more than usual that night, nearly finishing his sandwiches and potatoes; however, he despises carrots even though candied to tempt his considerable sweet tooth.

“Well, they were the best-looking fresh vegetables on hand today,” Mrs. Hudson grumbled as she cleared away our plates.

But my friend enjoyed two helpings of the spirit-sodden ginger cake.

After supper, Holmes broke open a bottle of 30-year-old Quinta de Vargellas port, a recent gift from a wealthy, grateful client, and we relaxed before the fire. I fear I grew drowsy the moment the luscious spirit anointed my stomach. Even so, I could feel Holmes’s eyes on me.

I forced myself awake and gazed over at him, openly admiring the glow our fire cast upon his pale face.

“Tired, Watson?” he asked softly.

“Can you blame me?” I replied.

He smiled, not the flash variety, but the fond, doting smile reserved only for those close to him. His brother Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and I are perhaps the only people to be graced by that smile.

“You should retire then,” Holmes said, standing to glide toward me and rescue my wine glass before it slipped from insensate fingers.

“It’s still early,” I mumbled. It was several hours before our accustomed bedtime. I did not want to venture upstairs and risk falling into deep slumber. Were Holmes to later find me thus, he would likely not disturb me.

And I wanted him with me tonight.

He leaned down and brushed his lips against my cheek, whispering, “I already warned Mrs. Hudson we were retiring early, dear boy. She’ll turn away any late visitors with her customary tenacity.”

He chuckled in his low, gut-deep way. His hand rose to brush stubbornly stray locks from my forehead then traced a finger along the bruise on my jaw.

Holmes is not often so tender. Therefore, it is a wise man who takes full advantage of such an occasion.

“You’ll follow me upstairs shortly then?” I asked dreamily, gazing into his eyes. The wild, manic glint that fired them so early in the day had receded. Now the grey pools were calmer, reflecting the fire’s dancing flames.

“You need to sleep,” Holmes said in less than his normal tone of certainty.

“I need my bedmate.” I tried my most seductive smile. His eyebrow nearly arched.

His response was to stand and pull at my hand, urging me toward the sitting-room door. Once there I turned, encircled him with my arms and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. For a moment he did not respond. When he did the kiss grew more passionate. Several moments later, Holmes broke it.

“Up the stairs with you, my friend,” Holmes said.

“Join me shortly,” I repeated, this time not as a question.

He nodded. Only then did I open the door and venture up to my room.

My movements undressing were slow and dull. The accumulation of sleepless nights over the past month was catching up with me. Dragging my coat from my shoulders seemed a monumental effort. I twisted wrong and my old wound reared up with a sharp stab of pain.

Outside my door, I heard the WC door across the hallway creak followed soon after by the sound of the water. Holmes must have sent Mrs. Hudson up to draw me a bath.

I shook my head in weary amusement at the man’s uncanny intuition; a hot bath was just what my shoulder required. I continued undressing, but it was more than a quarter hour later that I wearily shuffled across the hall.

“Mrs. Hudson?” I softly called, not having heard her descend the steps. But I received no answer.

I opened the door to a wall of deliciously warm mist eerily lit by a single low gaslight. I turned right toward the wall hook and slipped out of my dressing-gown, raising my arms to hang it from the hook. My hand brushed fabric, a richly smooth nap.

“My dear boy, come into the tub so I may finish filling it.”

“Holmes?” I started, turning toward the sound of his voice.

Through the mist, I saw his aristocratic head lean far back as he reclined in the bathing tub. He reached a slender hand toward me.

“Come,” he whispered.

I had not anticipated this. However, I was wise enough not to allow my surprise to further delay the pleasure to which I was being invited and quickly moved to lock the door.

Although Holmes is habitually careless about the tidiness of our rooms, he is compulsively fastidious about his personal hygiene. Save for the times he is in disguise, depressed or when he grossly abuses the cocaine, Holmes is always meticulously groomed. He has been known to shave morning and evening. He revels in long, steamy baths in winter and warm but refreshing ones in balmy weather. He is obsessive regarding the cleanliness of his hands, often scrubbing them with pumice soaked in lemon juice.

“To remove chemical and nicotine stains, Watson,” he protests when I sarcastically roll my eyes at the practice. More than once, I have openly likened his exacting personal habits to those of a preening feline.

“Thank you, Watson. Cats are quite discerning creatures,” Holmes once sarcastically replied.

Nonetheless, being invited to share a bath with the man is an undeniable delight and not solely because of the intimate proximity of his long and lush body thanks to our average-sized tub.

Holmes transforms a bath, as he does with many mundane tasks, to an event in extravagance.

I should have discerned, when I entered the loo, the luscious aroma of the bathing salts Holmes favors … top notes of rosemary, basil and lemongrass blend with a host of other fragrant and medicinal herbs. The recipe is Holmes’s own, shared only with Carr, the local druggist, who compounds the herbs, adds sufficient glycerin, then soaks epsom salt nuggets in the concoction ultimately bottled for delivery to Holmes alone.

“This will do your shoulder a world of good, Watson,” Holmes says to me as his hand reaches for mine.

“I shall not ask how you knew I just aggravated my shoulder,” I sighed, stepping into the tub, cautious of my footing on the slippery bottom. Holmes’s hands gripped firm support to my hips as I lowered myself into the comfortably warm water. Once I was secure, he stretched out his long arm and turned the hot faucet to a steady stream.

Holmes’s legs splayed widely to make room for me, his hands first pulling at my hips to scoot back close to him then lifting his flaccid cock to settle against my buttocks. His arms encircled my chest and he pulled me even closer until my body was semi-spooned against his.

“Lean back, dear fellow,” he whispered in my ear as his hand urged my head to rest comfortably on his left shoulder, just as he had during this morning’s ride. Then, as if by magic, he produced a steaming packet of fragrant herbs, placed it over my scar and nestled it in place with his arm.

“Poultice,” I murmured as the comforting warmth and pleasant aroma soothed both my muscles and mind.

“Mmmm,” Holmes murmured back as his left arm draped across my chest to gently massage my right breast, long fingers tracing my nipple. His other hand slid down my left flank, absently stretching and toying with my cock, fingers cupping my sac, gently and unhurriedly probing beneath it.

“Watson, reach up and shut off the water, would you?” Holmes whispered. I had just to reach out with my left hand to finger the valve shut.

As my arm slipped back into the water, I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the delectable sensation of complete envelopment within Holmes’s strong and lanky embrace and the steamy atmosphere of the room.

Occasionally, I would feel the caress of a sponge trail a cascade of aromatic lather across my chest, along my neck or down my arms and thighs. The easy shift and ripple of Holmes’s muscles surrounding me and the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back was calming. He was here with me, safe and tranquil and attentive to my needs; all the disappointment and frustration and unpredictability of last night and today melted away with every soft-warm breath that caressed my cheek.

I apparently dozed; my eyes flashed open as I felt Holmes’s shoulder gently shrug to reposition my lolling head back to the comfortable nook against his long neck. Slight disorientation stiffened my muscles but Holmes calmed me with a barely breathed command.

“Easy m’boy.”

I sighed a response and relaxed against him once more. His hands were quietly busy, one swelling my nipple the other, my cock. I did not really want this lovely warmth to rise to fever-pitch and I squirmed against his actions, hoping his witch-like intuition was keen tonight.

“No, Jean?” he murmured.

I wearily moved my head from side to side.

“Oui,” he breathed and left off stroking my cock. His other hand, though, kept gently plying my nipple for several moments until the water began growing tepid.

“Should get out,” I mumbled and felt his cheek nod agreement against mine. His hands slipped down to urge my buttocks up and steadied me as I gained my feet.

“Stay still,” he whispered against my ear and I felt rather than saw him rise and gracefully exit the tub. Soon, a warm towel was wrapped about me and Holmes was before me, gently drying my shoulders, arms back and torso. He reached down and lifted the plunger to empty the tub then steadied me as I exited; my feet sank into another warm towel laid on the floor. I felt suddenly embarrassed that Holmes was not only anticipating my every need, but spectacularly meeting each one.

He is rarely so indulgent.

“Why do I have the feeling all this is mere precursor to you awakening me at an ungodly hour with a demand that I be dressed and downstairs hailing a cab in five minutes?” I said, only half joking, glancing down as Holmes crouched to dry my lower legs.

Twin grey beacons, just visible in the dim gaslight, darted a sly gaze upward.

“Because you have a suspicious nature,” he murmured.

“Because I possess a wealth of similar experience,” I corrected.

He flashed a grin and continued drying me. After he was finished, he continued to crouch before me, both of us stark naked. His glittering eyes examined the scene before them. Despite my weariness, I felt my cock beginning to respond to their scrutiny.

The corners of Holmes’s rosy lips curled upward.

“That is no fault of mine,” he said.

“The hell it’s not,” I countered. I also noted his member stiffening in a similar fashion.

“Impure thoughts, Doctor,” he said then rose and reached for another towel from the rack abutting the water-heater to dry himself. I bent to shake feldspar cleansing powder in the tub and reached for the scrubbing brush.

As I was bending, Holmes moved close behind me, his hands cupping my buttocks.

“Do not further aggravate your shoulder, Watson,” he said huskily, then bent over to relieve me of the long-handled tub brush. When I moved to rise, his other hand firmly pressed down on my back.

“Stay,” he rasped.

His long reach would normally have made quick work of scrubbing our bath’s detritus from the tub. But Holmes’s attention was otherwise engaged.

While his scrubbing arm made half-hearted passes around both my body and the tub’s interior, he slid his other hand upward along my back to grasp my right shoulder, urging my body back toward him, backing my buttocks against his very hard cock which wasted no time in rubbing between them.

His hand kept pulling on my shoulder, encouraging me to rock against him. He bent lower and arched over me, his skin still warmly moist. After a moment the tub brush clattered, abandoned, into the tub and Holmes’s left hand dipped to manipulate my stiffening prick instead.

I reached down to the tub’s rim to brace myself and him and heard his grunt of acknowledgement. His cock continued to glide against me while his curled fingers pulled hard at my length, his thumb making rough passes over the cockhead until enough of my essence oozed to slick its way. As my breathing and heart rate sped toward the inevitable, his hand and hips moved faster and harder.

I felt Holmes’s teeth score the back of my neck then range down along my throat to nip at my right shoulder. His tongue emerged to lave at the spot, but this time he had not broken the skin. My cock responsively jerked within Holmes’s grasp. I closed my eyes and silently willed him to bite again, harder.

He growled a muffled oath against my skin and, with his witch-like instinct, bit down. It was our incontrovertible connection, more than his passionate gesture, which nearly undid me.

He left off licking the shallow but fruitful wound he made and pressed his lips to my ear, breathing a question I answered with a frantic groan.

“Shhh,” was all he said.

Holmes entered me swiftly and with nearly as much vigour as our very first joining—a fierce union which nearly tore us asunder—on our initial night as flat-mates. Its intensity left me averse to such intimacy for nearly two years afterward.

But that night left Holmes’s emotions and confidence far more shattered. I winced, as much at the memory of his resulting self-punishing and aloof manner, as from the relentless burn of his present exertions. His thrusts soon sapped my mind of its higher functions.

Oblivious as to whether tonight’s finis was simultaneous or consequent, I only know it took neither of us long.

My name, torn from Holmes’s gut, rasped against my ear but I had no air to return such tribute. It was several moments before either of us moved or spoke.

“Extraordinary,” I sighed, opening my eyes. It had been a long month indeed.

Holmes remained silent, his weight still pressing down upon my supporting frame, his breath gradually stabilizing. Once my nerve endings recovered from their exquisite disruption, my old leg wound began reminding me of the brevity of passion’s dynamic effects; I moved to rise.

It was then that Holmes sighed, “Watson” and straightened. His slender hand made a probing pass between my buttocks as I rose.

“Hmmm?” he queried.

I answered by arching cautiously and leaning back against his chest.

“Fine,” I answered. His hand slipped slowly around the curve of my arse and along my flank. His other hand moved up to my jaw, turning my head toward his for a brief kiss. Afterward, his eyelids drooped drowsily

“Go in to bed. I shall have a wash and be there in a moment,” I said to him, padding to the hook where our dressing-gowns hung. I slipped Holmes’s onto his loose arms, hefting it to the thin shoulders. He suffered me to turn him toward me as I tied the sash at his waist.

I looked up at him. His lids were a bit more open now.

“Watson,” he said again. His arms moved around me and he pressed another kiss to my lips before I turned him toward the door.

“I’ll be right there,” I whispered watching him until he entered my room.

After relieving my bladder and washing, I made my own sleepy way to bed. Holmes lay huddled in his typical position, curled toward the wall. He had slipped under his half of the blanket, but pulled mine over his body, exposing his back and buttocks.

I could not help but smile. Even in sleep, Holmes manages to convey his demands; he sleeps best when my body is spooned against him.

“Stop admiring the view, Watson, and come to bed,” Holmes murmured sleepily.

Who am I to disobey such wisdom?