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He’s packing his clay pipe, a well-practised task that requires no particular focus, and yet his eyes are fixed. Not absorbed, as mine are tempted, in the subtle movements of his hands, the fine bones of his wrists, but set carefully, neutrally on a point in middle distance.
I find that my mouth is very dry.
“No?” His eyes flicker disinterestedly, the glint of the fire playing in their darkness. “I imagine that you would know better than I.”
There’s a catch of fear in my chest. All those misguided souls who came here seeking aid and found their most secret selves laid instantly, startlingly bare in this very sitting room—all the pity I had felt for their weak, nauseated shock, and I not a whit better, not a shred more learned for all the months I have sat in this chair opposite.
I should have seen this coming—I can see this coming, the edges increasingly clear on the horizon of my mind—but there is nothing I can do to stop its progress, no action I might take that would not give away my fear. Which, in turn, would give away everything. It is, after all, Sherlock Holmes I am dealing with.
I am holding my brandy in front of my chest, the idle weight of the tumbler a poor shield. I lift it to my lips and sip, heart pounding.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He laughs—not his joyful, compulsive roll of a guffaw, the beloved sound I hear all too seldom—but a little sniff of… not quite disdain, but disappointment, perhaps. He expects better of me, it says. He had forgotten I could be as wilfully, pigheadedly ignorant as any other man.
The crux of my problem: I am not like any other man. Nor—emphatically, extraordinarily, magnificently—is he.
“It’s easy enough to imagine,” says he, raising his pipe. (I swallow in anticipation of his movement.) His lips part, he bites the stem; smoke encircles him like some storybook sorcerer. I would not be surprised to see my future writ there, my past; decipherable to his eyes only.
I have seen too many men and women forget, or disregard his reputation, thinking they might somehow deceive him. I will not be one of them. I will not fail to see. Though there is nothing I can do to keep my fate from barrelling toward me, I at least can watch its approach.
“An ancient civilisation,” he says, apropos of nothing. “The Biblical paradise, is it not? Or paradox, more aptly.”
His eyes meet mine—mirthful, questioning. Seeking my approval, my understanding.
“How so, Holmes?”
“Lush, tropical gardens. Verdant forests full of fruit trees growing wild, a generosity of blessings, any and all a man could want.” He puffs thoughtfully. “And, surrounding this oasis, a bleak and unforgiving desert. An enormous, beating sun, endless sand, an inhospitable—no, outright hostile climate. Certain death to the careless, the solitary, the unprepared.”
I have never heard him speak like this; I am transfixed.
Granted, I am far from his most critical observer; he can fascinate me with little more than the flick of a wrist, the graceful flourish of a penknife, a much practised deduction of the mud on my shoes. But to hear him wax poetic like this is a delight beyond expectation—he who has so thoroughly mocked my little essays for their romance, their florid descriptions…
“This constant threat of death, of violence—not only from the environment but its inhabitants. All the dangers and uncertainty that surround you, day and night. With only your companions to rely on, your…”
I take a fortifying sip of my brandy.
“…band of brothers.” He raises an eyebrow “A circle of trust and camaraderie, a bond which must remain unbroken for the sake of survival. A rather extraordinary phenomenon.”
His silences are pointed, well-chosen. Designed, I have always believed, to say more than the words he does chose to speak aloud.
What confessions this tension might force from me, what truths might crystallise under the pressure of this nonchalant, never-careless pause.
Another sip.
The palms of my hands are beginning to itch.
“And at the cradle of two great rivers…” He goes on as if this is the natural continuance of his thought, as if I can guess where he is leading this conversation, what spear of logic he will use to pierce me. Where I will be this time tomorrow. “There must be an extraordinary power there, Watson. The weight of history—not just of the region itself, but of all one’s associations with the ancient world. A schoolboy’s imaginings.”
The fire—laid hours ago—should be flickering and dying. The room should not be this hot. I feel sweat beading beneath the collar of my shirt; I fight the urge to tug at the buttons.
“The picaresque romance of pirates and explorers. The opulence and indulgence of Rome. The golden mystique of the Greek gods.” He takes a long, thoughtful drag. “There at the crux of the Tigris and the Euphrates… the cradle of civilisation, don’t they say? It must inspire some… great feeling, it must come with some… what is the word I am looking for?”
“Iraq.”
Pleased surprise, intrigue, confusion—a wealth of reactions flicker across his face and are gone, leaving only a the traces of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“What’s that?”
I take a deep breath in through my nose. “The Tigris and the Euphrates. Those rivers meet in Iraq.”
“Ah, quite right.” He nods in recognition, taps out the ash of his pipe. “And it was Afghanistan where you served. As I well know.”
This… this is the straw I have chosen to grasp? I know my cause is hopeless but regardless… this tack is a fruitless one. A simple slip of the tongue, a momentary lapse in Holmes’ knowledge of geography, and I expect it to…
But… this is not one simple slip. This is an entire evening of uncharacteristic behaviour—deductions and theorising giving way to conversation, intimations, questions of a personal nature. The deliberate cultivation of intimacy, of security, of secrets perceived but never acknowledged.
The glow of the fire. The locked door. His posture of familiarity and understanding—what I, in my fear, had perceived as persecution. You are safe here. Your secret is safe with me.
And the story—the romantic pictures he is painting, the luscious images, the flowery language so foreign to him… This is an attempt to catch my attention, to tell me something, to…
My cheeks are burning. My jaw is set but I find my hand to be shaking very slightly. I curl my fingers tighter around the glass.
I had thought his behaviour calculated, guessed that he meant to draw out a confession. I may not have been so far off.
Two rivers meeting in Afghanistan—a simple mistake, or an invitation for me to look deeper.
I look.
He is posed in his chair most familiarly, casually reclined with his pipe idle in his hand. Left leg crossed over the right. A smile of understanding and pleasure, an involuntary little glow of pride.
He has been sitting there watching my mind work, observing me as I have observed him so many times—though my thinking is slower and more cumbersome and ever more prone to error—he has been sitting and watching and reading the process of my thoughts, and it has put that silly, helpless smile on his face. The smile I now feel reflected on my own, the sudden, golden lightness in my chest.
I drain my brandy—there is rather more of it left than I had expected and it burns on my lips, flushes my face—and set the tumbler down on the end table. I stand, and for an instant my head swims, but Holmes’ face remains in perfect focus.
Only a few feet separate our accustomed chairs, but the decreased distance is heady, leaving my tongue thick in my mouth and the blood sluggish and warm in my veins. The fire is still high in the grate and the night is not a cold one; my wound will allow me to kneel before him. Where I can lay my left hand upon his knee, and he can lay his atop mine.
“Very good, Watson.” His eyes are so dark, so warm. I have never seen him look like this, so open, so joyful, so adoring. “You will forgive me my little game, won’t you?”
I would forgive him anything in the world.
“You may have to work for it.”
The smile breaks across his face like the dawn and I cannot help but kiss it, as if to seal it in my own memory, to ascertain that this is really happening. For a second his mouth is stretched tight, but then the breath rushes out of him and his lips purse against mine, and my mind goes utterly blank, my chest hollow, and I exist only to be filled by this experience, I have never existed but for the sake of the inevitability of what is to come.
Undone, I am shaken to the core by this simple kiss. I can feel my fingers cramping; they are caught in the fabric of his dressing gown, gripping him tightly by the shoulders, pulling him closer to me. His breath on my lips, his lips on my lips, on my cheeks and my chin and the corners of my mouth, like an animal set free from its leash, indecisive and reeling at its newfound freedom.
His hand comes up—I feel the palm of his hand on my cheek, that graceful instrument, the endless hours of idle, fevered contemplation that I have lost to the idea of his hands—and his thumb and fingers grip my jaw as he returns my kiss. He guides me and pleads with me to guide him, he says so much without saying. We will lead each other into this great darkness.
My left hand upon his knee, my right hand upon his clavicle, his chest, his waist—I cannot seem to stop touching. I fight the urge to pull at his clothes, to unravel and expose him—I am a brute, clumsy and laid to waste by my desire, by his inexorable pull. I am gripping at his ribs, I am stroking his flanks, both my hands are around his slim waist and I am pulling at him, I am tugging him from his chair until he begins to overbalance, until he gives in with a little breathless laugh and follows me to the floor, lays his long body down on top of mine and steals the air from my lungs.
“Watson,” he breathes, and I am lost, utterly. I want to hear my name on his lips a thousand times; no sound in the world would please me better, no music could ever be its equal.
All I can do is look up at him; his face is the sun and I have never before been so brave as to stare directly into it, but now I cannot stop. He sees something in my face—I can perceive his reaction but not read it, this is foreign country, I am not learnt in the vocabulary—and yet whatever it is leads him to kiss me again, and my soul roils up and swallows my thoughts.
Wordless, my hands move along his shoulders, the slope of his back, his thighs. I know the planes of his body already, I have roamed them so many times with my eyes, with my mind. I measure the pace of his breath on my lips, my face, my neck; I know the mounting beat of his pulse, how his desire is rising parallel to mine. I grip at the meat of his thighs and he hisses, presses his forehead against my chest. With my hand and my body, I guide his leg between mine. My chest tightens and my blood rises loud in my ears; I feel him against me, hard and knotted and hot in answer. He is groaning and his lips are moving against mine, his hips against mine, and I cannot help but writhe, but move with him, but seek his skin, his touch with my every movement, my every thought.
His hair tickles my neck, coming loose from its slicked-back style and I have always wanted to see him this way, always coveted the thought of him undressed, uncoiffed, unravelled. This image I had secreted away in the feverish dark of night, this waking dream, his body atop mine. The harsh panting of his breath, the pink of his cheeks, the flush that surely trails down beneath his collar to paint his chest…
I will not undress him tonight; our need is too urgent, the time cannot be spared. Already, the pressure of him moving against me, the blistering, aching heat is overwhelming; I am spurred like a horse, I am compelled and helpless, my body is nothing but a rhythm, my heart and mind an open vessel with which to carry him. I crush his body closer to mine, I grope at the cheeks of his arse, the hard muscle, and I hold him fast so that I might rock up to meet him, that I might take what I have so long wanted.
His breath hiccoughs and he is making a sound I cannot quantify, his head falls against my chest. The wet spot in my trousers is spreading and within seconds, I feel his whole body stiffen—I force my eyes open, not to miss a second—and feel heat and wetness bloom between my legs as he shudders and shakes and gasps for air. A flood of arousal rushes through me—to see him like this, that I was the one to cause this, brought him to this state—and I am eclipsed, I am lost, I come to my own glory seconds later.
We lie there, panting and spent. Warmed by the fire even as our blood cools. He is tender and subtle, subdued but solicitous. I cannot sate myself of the feeling of his body against mine, of this look in his eyes that I have never seen before. Of the smell of him all around me.
His fingertips trace my collarbone, the lines of my shirt. Their movement is idle but I recognise their fixation: a curiosity long held, finally to be slaked. That I have been an object of desire to him, as he was to me… The thought is too much to contemplate.
I realise that I am free to touch his hair, weave my fingers in it, dishevel him further. I am not quite so bold—for now, anyway. While it is not worth disturbing the moment.
He lays his cheek on my chest, and I feel that our breathing is aligned. Contentment curls lazily in my ribs.
“Knowledge of geography?”
I puzzle at this for a moment, but it’s the smirk in his voice that reminds me. That damned list—he will never let me forget it.
I pretend to think it over. "Accurate, I'd say. I'm sorry to have doubted you."
He laughs, low and quiet. I revel in the rustle of his breath. Here and mine and now.
"Anatomy, then?"
I can't fight the smile that plays on my lips.
"Accurate... but unsystematic."
He's laughing before I am finished—the deep, infectious laugh I cherish so much. "You've hardly given me a chance, old chap. Wait and see."
I have done my waiting. I am finally able to see.
I can't help myself; I press my lips to the crown of his head. He sighs and stretches against me.
The night will soon grow cold, the fire will flicker and die. Our clothes will begin to stick and chafe, and the floor will make my bones ache, and we will have to retire. For now, though, I am content to lie like this. I am content here—I suspect I shall be for a long time yet.