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I had seen enough casualties during my service abroad to recognize the look of a
man who has been injured in the groin. I cannot count how many times fellow
soldiers would remain silent, hunched over, and in terrible pain, rather than
submit their embarrassing ailments to medical care.
Nevertheless, I had
mastered the art of convincing shy soldiers into allowing me to treat them.
Shrapnel and bullets hit thighs and backsides as easily as arms and stomachs,
and to a doctor, there was no difference, other than the sensitivity and
sympathy of care.
This prior experience is what alerted me to the
condition of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. The stiff way he walked; his
hunched-over frame; the wide, glazed expression in his normally bright eyes; the
sheen of sweat on his forehead – these were all clues to me that Holmes had
injured himself in some unseemly location that evening.
We had parted
ways that morning, and Holmes had gone on to investigate his most recent case
without me. Feeling unneeded, I sulked in my club until supper time.
Over
our meal together back at Baker Street, it was obvious something was amiss. He
barely touched his food, and sat silently, wincing at every small movement. He
answered my queries about the case curtly, with none of his usual
enthusiasm.
As he rose from his chair, I watched him crumple over, then
quickly right himself. He looked at me anxiously. Then he moved as casually as
he could to his sitting chair beside the fire, where he lit his pipe and smoked
rapidly and nervously.
I was not going to mention his wound at first. I
had trusted him in the past to come to me with the small injuries which
inflicted him in his line of work. And previously, he had shown no reservations
in revealing the damages that had impaired him. One particular stab wound had
struck him just below the hip bone, requiring some disrobing for me to tend it.
Holmes had shown no shyness then, and was willing to let me near his more
sensitive regions, albeit for only a short while, and with much scowling and
disgruntled mumbling on his part.
But it was obvious this night that
Holmes had no intention of coming to me with whatever humiliating injury he had
endured. I would not have forced the issue. But I had no choice once I rose from
my own seat and saw blood on his chair.
I waited until Mrs. Hudson
returned to clear our room for the night. I then casually retrieved my medical
bag from my bedroom and locked the sitting room door behind me. Holmes was too
distracted to even notice this, an alarming sign in itself. His face was ashen,
and he stared at the fire and smoked his pipe morosely.
I placed my bag
on the dining table with a sigh. “All right, Holmes, let’s have a look at it,
then.”
Holmes’ eyes snapped to me. He turned even paler. “What are you
talking about, Watson?”
I frowned. “I may not be able to determine the
difference between twenty types of cigarette ash, but I can deduce when a man is
suffering from a dangerous wound.” I removed my jacket and rolled up my
shirtsleeves.
Holmes looked away from me, puffing on his pipe. “I am
fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I pulled out my stethoscope.
“I do not
require treatment.” He would not look me in the eye. He stared at the fire with
a slightly frightened expression.
“You could die if it is not
treated.”
“You cannot know that,” he said hoarsely.
“I know that
you are bleeding heavily enough to stain chairs,” I told him calmly. “Don’t be
foolish, Holmes. I’ve seen all sorts of injuries in all sorts of places. I’m a
surgeon. Now let me help you.”
Holmes chewed his lip, hesitating. I had
never seen him so nervous before. I began to speculate on the nature of his
injury.
I immediately dismissed venereal disease. It came upon him too
suddenly, and there was too much blood. He could have torn himself climbing over
a fence, or been stabbed or shot. The more I considered the options, the more
concerned I became. It had to be affecting his genitals, for him to be so
embarrassed. If he was bleeding severely, it could be quite
dangerous.
“Holmes.” I crouched beside his chair, placing my hand on his
shoulder, forcing him to look at me.
Holmes looked scared, and this in
turn frightened me, as I have never before seen him lose his nerve.
“I
cannot, Watson,” Holmes whispered. He looked away once more. “I cannot show
you.”
“Please,” I urged him. “It needs to be treated.” I was terrified
that his sense of propriety would end up costing him his life.
“You will
look at me differently,” he said quietly. “You will never treat me the
same.”
“Holmes.” I leaned closer, squeezing his shoulder affectionately.
“For God’s sake, trust me.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew
I would not betray his faith in me.
Holmes finally looked up. He stared
at me for a long moment, hesitating. Then he let out a shaky breath. “All
right.”
I reached for my medical bag immediately, before he could change
his mind.
“Not here,” Holmes said, eyes darting towards the
door.
I nodded. “Why don’t you step inside your bedroom and change into
your dressing robe. I’ll return in a moment.”
I made my way to my
bedroom, mostly to provide an excuse to grant Holmes some privacy and a chance
to undress alone.
I returned a few minutes later and knocked on his door
before entering. He sat on the edge of his bed, naked except for the dressing
robe which he had pulled tightly around his thin frame. He had his arms crossed
over his chest, his eyes firmly focused on the floorboards of his room. He
paleness had been replaced with an embarrassed flush.
I sat beside him in
his only spare chair and measured his heart rate. I also took his temperature.
“What happened?” I asked finally. I pulled the thermometer from his
mouth. A slight fever, 99 degrees, but no cause for alarm.
“I…” Holmes
flushed further. “I’m afraid I got carried away.”
“You?” I smirked. To my
relief, Holmes smiled nervously back. “I can’t imagine,” I mused. I patted his
shoulder. “Lay down. Let’s have a look.”
Holmes looked at me then, with
all severity.
“This will affect our friendship,” he began, but I quickly
clucked my tongue at him and pushed him downwards.
“Shut up, Holmes,” I
scolded. “There is nothing that you could say or do that would change my
affections for you.”
That seemed to assuage his concerns. He swallowed,
and then lay down. To my surprise, however, he loosened his robe and lay on his
stomach, burying his face in his hands.
I hid my surprise and slowly but
confidently lifted the edge of his robe.
I expected to see an injury to
his buttocks. When I saw his back side unblemished, I looked
lower.
“Spread your legs, Holmes,” I said curtly. Holmes was shaking. But
I had to look. I reached down and spread his thighs apart.
And I froze in
shock. His bleeding was from his rectum. His opening was stretched, red, and
swollen.
He shuddered as I stared at his violated opening for a second
longer. Then I snapped into action. I took a roll of gauze from my bag and
pushed it against his opening.
“Hold on, old chap,” I said, patting his
shoulder affectionately. “I’m going to get more cotton wool.”
I fled the
room before I could see his face. Outside, I let out the breath I was holding.
My shock was palpable. I quickly poured myself a drink and downed it with all
haste.
I could not believe it.
Holmes was a sodomite! Or else he
had been violated against his will. In either case, it was not what I had
mentally prepared myself for. All of the implications came rushing to my mind.
Certain details about my friend began to make sense. As my mind raged, I made my
way to my bureau and pulled out some cotton wool dressings, and also refilled my
drink. I poured one for Holmes as well, and then stood outside his bedroom door
for another few seconds, steadying my nerves.
When I marched back in,
Holmes looked at me, his face washed with terror. He even had tears in his eyes,
which I had never seen before. He was sitting upright again, uncomfortably
curled around himself.
“Oh God…” his voice hitched.
“Watson—”
“—Hush.” I handed him a brandy. “Drink this.” I clanked my
glass against his. He jerked, startled.
I drank mine, and then motioned
for him to do the same. “Come on, Holmes. Drink up. This is going to
hurt.”
Holmes’ eyes grew wide. “Why?”
“Because you’ve done a fine
job botching up your backside. Once I find the tear I’m most likely going to
have to apply a salve, which is going to be an unpleasant experience for
you.”
“And you,” Holmes whispered, looking away.
I smiled
slightly. “Do not worry about me. I have done this before. It is you who will be
feeling badly by the end of the night. So drink your brandy, and then lie back
down. That’s an order.”
Holmes seemed to relax slightly. He drank up and
lay back down as he had been told.
Holmes still shuddered, but was quiet
as I tended to him. As I did so, I recalled the one other time I had done this,
for some mates of mine in the army.
It was not as though I were so naïve
as to not understand what had happened here. I myself had experimented freely
with my classmates in boarding school, and even had a few sinful evenings during
my military service where events had progressed this far. I suppose that was a
large part of my shock. I had always known that I was susceptible to both male
and female charms. But I had never imagined Sherlock Holmes succumbing to the
temptations of forbidden flesh. He was so clean, so proper, so dignified. It was
almost impossible for me to imagine him engaged in filthy sexual
acts.
And yet here indeed was evidence before me. I managed to finally
clean him enough to determine the location and severity of the tear. To my
relief, it was not very long, but it was near a blood vessel, which was the
cause of the extensive bleeding.
I prepared an injection of morphine. I
moved up to Holmes’ arm and rubbed his bare skin briskly. He looked at me
carefully.
“What is that?” he asked skeptically.
“Morphine,” I
told him.
Holmes’ lips flickered in a small smile. “I thought you
disapproved of my use of drugs.”
I smiled back. “I do. But in this case,
I’m making an exception.” I pricked him with the needle, and he hissed in
surprise.
I watched his body for its reaction. Once I saw him loosen,
begin to relax due to the drug, I began my work. It was a difficult angle to
address, and my prodding and poking and sitting between Holmes’ legs no doubt
made him extremely uncomfortable, so I tried my best to distract him by
assuaging my curiosity.
“Who did this to you?” I asked him. As I applied
the salve, he flinched.
“No one of importance.” He sounded curt.
I
sighed. “Holmes. You cannot do this again.”
Holmes glanced back at me,
eyebrows drawn together.
I realized I had not been clear. “—No, no, I
mean… bugger whomever you want,” I said. “I don’t care. But you cannot treat
your body so violently.”
Holmes’ face blushed a furious red. He looked
away.
I continued to apply salve inside of him. “You are more likely to
injure yourself from this point forward. If you are going to engage in such
activities, you must use a lubricant—“
“—Yes, thank you, I know the laws
of friction,” Holmes snapped. He glared at me.
My lips twitched.
“Really? Because it appears here that you have completely missed the
concept.”
Holmes eyed me carefully. Obviously, my reaction was not what
he expected at all.
“Use a lubricant,” I stressed once more. “It does
not have to be so… rough.”
Holmes watched my ministrations in silence
for a minute. And then, in a very quiet voice, he said, “I like it
rough.”
There was a stirring, distant, in my groin. I couldn’t believe
it. For years we had been intimate friends, and I had never thought of Holmes in
that fashion. But the idea of him being passive, splayed below me on the bed as
I pounded him into the mattress gave me a shiver of arousal.
It was I
that broke eye contact then. His stare was piercing, challenging, as if he were
now trying to bait me, trying to get me to be offended by him. I would not
play.
I turned my focus to applying the salve around his opening. As I
did so, I caught the brief flicker of movement from his groin, but I did not say
anything.
“Well, I hope your partner found it worthwhile to treat you so
despicably,” I scolded him, hoping once more to get out who this mysterious man
was. Holmes didn’t answer my question. As I re-packed my belongings, I had to
ask again. “Who was he?”
“No one,” he said again. After a moment, he
added “a rent boy.”
“Oh, Holmes…” I shook my head at him.
He
glared. “Well, it’s not as if I could ask YOU to assist me with such a service,
could I?” he snapped back. As soon as he said it, he looked away, and turned
pale once more.
I could feel a stirring in my groin again. God, I had
never considered having him as a bed partner all these years. But had he been
thinking such thoughts about me?
I patted his bare buttocks
affectionately. “All done. You may dress now.”
Instantly he sat back up,
covering himself. He grimaced as the movement no doubt moved the salve inside of
him.
“Although I would not wear any trousers you are very fond of for a
few days,” I added. I raised an eyebrow at him. “And you are to be restricted to
bed rest for at least twenty-four hours. No movement. Do you
understand?”
Holmes scowled and opened his mouth as if to protest, but
then decided not to. He just sighed, wrapping his robe tighter around himself
and moving to sit at the edge of his bed once more.
“Let me know if it
starts to sting very badly,” I told him, getting up. I did not want to leave him
– I was desperately curious to find out more about this side of him I had never
suspected – but I also could tell he wanted me far, far away from him. His body
language was cold, unfriendly.
“I’ll check on the wound in a week,” I
said. I made my way to the door. I smiled at him. “Rest now. Take it
easy.”
Suddenly Holmes reached out and fiercely grabbed my elbow. His
grip pinched my skin. I looked at him in surprise.
He stared at me, eyes
wide. “You are not upset by this revelation?”
I stared down at him. He
looked fragile. I often forgot he was younger than me, given his superior
intellect, his confidence, his quirky personality. But at moments like this, I
saw the insecurities which lingered under the surface of his great mind. He was
just a man like anyone else, I reminded myself. A man with faults, with fears,
with feelings.
I swallowed, and then placed my hand affectionately on
the top of his head. “Holmes, I never know what to expect with you. Yes, I am
surprised. But I am not upset. If I became upset every time you did something
shocking, I would have been put in an asylum years ago.” I laughed then, and he
smiled too, warmly, his eyes finally lifting their gloom, brightening once more.
In truth, his grey eyes, when he was happy, were startlingly beautiful. He
reached for my hand and squeezed it.
“Thank God, Watson. Thank you. I
could not bear the loss of your friendship. I thought…” he looked away for a
moment, and then took a deep breath and stared at me once more. “I thought you
would be appalled. I see now that I have not been very observant. Although you
have proven yourself time and time again to be open-minded, understanding, and
loyal, I still doubted whether this last sordid fact about me would slip past
your sense of morality.”
“I meant it when I said there is nothing you
could do that would change my affections,” I told him. I briefly considered
mentioning that I myself had experimented sexually with men in my younger days.
But I decided that it was a conversation that would be exhausting, and he needed
rest more than anything else. I tousled his thick black hair and ran my hand to
the back of his neck, squeezing affectionately. “Now go to sleep. Your body
needs to heal.”
Holmes looked at me with such affection, I could have
sworn it was love. But then it disappeared from his features, as quickly as it
had come, and he yawned and turned away from me. I turned down his gas lamps as
I made my way to my own lonely room, bewildered and amazed by this latest
information about him.
Chapter
Two
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