As if anyone needed further proof of how slowly I write... I started this Holmes/Watson story back in 1898 1994, at the height of my love for the Granada Sherlock Holmes series. I had all but forgotten about it until I came across it this weekend while sorting through some old 3.5 disks.

The Brettian influence is all over it, especially in the descriptions of Holmes's hair. Still, I tried to keep Holmes as much in character as I could, as much as a Holmes in love can be. Speaking of love, this contains the closest I've ever come to giving them an actual sex scene.

The idea of their addressing one another by their Christian names was taken from a professional short story I had read around the same time. That author's opinion was that they probably did so in private, their sir names being used in public and in print as a show of respect. I'd have to dig it up again, but it sounded plausible at the time and in the way it was presented.

Anyway, I don't know if I'll ever finish this, at least with the plot/ending I originally intended. In fact, it'll probably go up on wip_amnesty next February, even though I only envisioned four or five chapters total. One last word of warning: gallerae is the only other person to have read/beta'ed this.

Enjoy!

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A Study in Sherlock
It is Tuesday, March 22, 1898, and I have been confined to bed for the past three days and to the house for the duration of the week by my master, Sherlock Holmes. As a doctor, I should appreciate the soundness of this advice, but it is said that doctors make the worst patients, and I am finding myself to be no exception. Whereas I was grateful for the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the bedding when my illness first conquered me, I now find myself, now that I am fully rested and recovering, bored beyond belief. I have tired of reading tales of the sea and playing solitaire. Of course, I have a strong desire to write up a narrative to present to the public, especially one to detail the exact circumstances of the tragedy of the Honourable Ronald Adair, which sequel afforded me the greatest joy of my life; however, I worry that my present indisposition would hamper my ability to do full justice to the matter. At any rate, there has always been an understanding between Sherlock and myself that I will not publish anything without his permission, which he has refused to grant these past four years.

It is for these reasons, as well as recent personal events, that I have decided to take up this journal, even though I am obliged to begin by telling a story against myself.

It could have amounted to nothing, as Sherlock insisted, or it could have cost everything, as I feared. It certainly had the potential for the latter, a fact which very nearly robbed me of my senses as it contributed to my failing health. Yet I suppose it was worth the aggravation for the valuable lesson I learned and the insight I gained into the dynamics of our Baker Street household.

The catalytic incident to which I allude occurred just two weeks ago, on the second morning of the fortnight I was to look after Dr. Verner's practise while the gifted young physician attended a symposium on the continent. It was a cold, tempestuous morning. I was vaguely aware of the alarm sounding, but what actually rallied me to consciousness was the rain slapping against the house and the wind shrieking like a spoiled child for attention.

By the light from the fireplace I managed to find the clock and the lamp, whose gas I turned up just enough to deter my dozing off. As I did so, the blankets fell away from my bare shoulders and I experienced a sudden chill which sent me diving back under the bedding and instinctively seeking out the natural warmth to be found there. That warmth, of course, was Sherlock.

The mere sight of him was enough to dissuade me from falling back to sleep. Although we made love with some frequency— save for those periods of complete chastity that I am forced to endure when he is engaged in a case —it wasn't often that we slept together through the night, and rarer still that I rose before him when we did so. I rose up on my elbow and propped my head on my hand to better view the beloved face that was only inches from my own. Yet the features of that face were secondary to the serenity of their expression. All vestiges of the hunter of men were gone, and what remained was the tranquility of the musician. I had seen this look, with its gentle whisper of a smile, come over him occasionally when he played his violin and usually when he heard Sarasate, and I was pleased that I too might be able direct the flow of art in his blood toward the softer emotions.

I pushed back a small lock of hair which grazed my lover's eyelid not unlike the way the branches of the plane tree outside scraped the shutters. He had mentioned at supper that he had spent his Monday morning at the barber's and tailor's, but one would never deduce the former by his randy forelocks— though I had felt the newly-clipped bristles along the nape of his neck whilst urging him at his task the night before. How beautiful his hair is, I thought; glossy even without the brilliantine. Sherlock never came to bed without having first scrubbed his hair, brushed his teeth, and donned a crisp, clean nightshirt.

The rain battered the window. I could tell there was ice in it by the dull throbbing in my thigh, a relic of my service in Afghanistan, which would only grow keener during my morning rounds. I shuddered at the thought, and the howl of the wind swelled as if to taunt me.

Sherlock appeared undisturbed by Nature's tantrum. In fact, unless I was very much mistaken, the quiet brush of my fingers against his brow had further relaxed him. Encouraged by this, I gently traced his jaw line until my hand dipped just inside the collar of the nightshirt he had not had cause to remove. Sherlock responded, much to my delight, by arching his graceful neck and nestling his head deeper against the pillows.

I recalled how I had relaxed in kind under his touch the previous night. The dampness of the gathering storm had settled into the old injury to my shoulder during my evening rounds, so that by the time I returned home, my entire body felt like a tightly wound spring. My discomfort did not go unnoticed by my companion, of course, but he surprised me by offering to relieve my suffering and delighted me with the remedy.

Sherlock proffered his restorative some time after dinner, over which he had recounted a "fascinating" conversation he had had with a book merchant on Manchester Street on dating any given volume by a sample of its typeface. I was seated at my secretary, preparing a list of patients for the morning, when a pair of strong hands stole onto my shoulders. I didn't start, though I hadn't noticed Sherlock re-enter the room, and had worried that my barely stifled yawn during his dinner monologue had put him off for the night. I suppose it's a positive endorsement for our intimacy that I didn't even look up from my task.

"Yes, my love?"

"While traveling about in ninety-three, I paid a brief visit to Sweden, where I received some instruction in their method of relieving muscular pain and stimulating circulation." So saying, he pressed his thumbs firmly against the base of my neck whilst the heels of his hands kneaded my shoulders. The feeling was marvelous if brief, as Sherlock's hands stopped moving. "If you can excuse my amateur technique, you may find it worth your while to allow me to practise the art of massage upon your person."

I straightened in my chair. "Then, pray, continue."

"For the best results, you really should undress."

I looked up at him then, over my shoulder, and saw that he was already in his nightclothes. His hair, still damp, was just beginning its stubborn descent down his brow.

"As you say," I replied, rubbing the back of my neck. "I feel as if I've been run over by a dogcart."

"My poor John. Will you be much longer here?" Sherlock asked, indicating my papers with a slight wave of his hand.

I quickly blotted the last name on my list. "I'm just finished now."

"Splendid."

It wasn't long before I was ensconced in my bed with Sherlock perched beside me. The cool night air pricked my skin as he pulled the bedcovers down to the small of my back, and I thought my muscles would tighten so to snap, but then his warm hands settled onto my shoulders. He resumed the ministrations he had demonstrated earlier, and I immediately began to relax. I closed my eyes, imagining that my body was brick being restored to clay under his skilled kneading. Certainly the tension drained from my muscles, and I sighed with relief.

"How long, John, will you be obligated to Kensington?"

"Just this week and next," I murmured.

"And how often do you think you'll require such attention?"

"Oh, probably every night… for the rest of my life."

A short bark of laughter was his only rejoinder. We fell silent, and I began to muse once again upon the efficiency of Sherlock's unprofessional massage. I relaxed further with every stroke of his hands, yet even with my eyes closed I didn't find myself drifting off to sleep. On the other hand, why should I expect to do so? Languor was hardly the word I would use to describe the feeling his touch invariably produced in me. I smiled at the thought.

At length, though long before I wanted the attentions to cease, I felt a gentle, rousing squeeze on my shoulder. I lazily rolled onto my back.

I took both of Sherlock's hands in mine and kissed them across the knuckles. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Sherlock said in mock offense. With the slightest of smiles lifting the corners of his mouth, he took my wrists and pressed them down onto my pillow. "The job is but half-finished."

His right hand slid down my arm and across my shoulder, coming to rest on the jagged scar just below my collarbone. The blemish can be no more than two inches in length, but it seems to me that Sherlock is endlessly fascinated by it. He traced it at least thrice as his eyes held mine. At last, he bent down and bestowed upon it a tender kiss. As he did so, he manoeuvred more fully onto the bed so that he was over me, though bearing his own weight.

His lips then blazed a trail up my neck and over my chin until finally settling on mine. They met with no resistance, and mine soon parted to welcome the invasion of his tongue. Some breathless moments later, I found myself looking into two sultry gray eyes.

"I have an early day tomorrow," I protested lamely, though my arms draped loosely about his shoulders belied the implication of my words.

"What I have in mind," Sherlock whispered, "will require little exertion on your part."

I demonstrated my consent by pulling his mouth back down to mine. As we kissed, the hand that had favoured my scar searched the length of my torso; however, if its quest had been the corresponding mark on my thigh, it was understandably diverted by my raging need. Indeed my manhood, which had been awakened by Sherlock's therapeutic caresses, was fully roused by his kisses.

How he kissed me that night! His mouth moved over the front of my body as thoroughly as his hands had moved over my back. He held his mouth slack, raking his tongue across my bosom, scraping his teeth along my ribcage. The thrill of his lips continued until, just when I thought I could bear the suspense no longer, he gave over to me that most intimate kiss of all.

I picked up Sherlock's left hand from where it rested on my stomach and laced my fingers through his. I must have babbled his name or a dozen endearments as well as some incoherent encouragement. He returned the pressure against my palm.

Surely, I digress. But these were certainly the thoughts I entertained that morning, and if I am to learn anything from this personal record, I must take into account our past history and allow myself such departures as necessary. For now, however, I should conclude the sequence of events of that fateful morning which very nearly ruined both our lives.

Indeed, it was at about that point that my reverie was dispelled by a sharp knock at my door announcing the arrival of hot water and early morning tea. I winced at this sudden reminder that I would soon have to abandon my warm abode for the numbing city streets. Then my eyes settled once again on my bedfellow, who was yet deep in the land of Nod, and reasoning that both water and tea would be too hot for immediate service, I stretched out beside him once more and pulled the blankets tighter 'round us both.

I often wondered about what Mr. Sherlock Holmes must dream. Early on in our partnership, as circumstances commonly required us to share a chamber, I learned that he often cried out in his sleep and occasionally woke suddenly, bolting upright and gasping for breath. Though I grew to expect these nocturnal outbursts, I never quite got used to them. They never failed to upset and worry me, but Sherlock's ensuing detachment from the incidents precluded prying their cause from him. I could only guess that nightmares were the price he paid for devoting his life to the study of crime and the punishment of evil.

His dreams seem to have sweetened over the years as the disruption of my own has decreased so remarkably that I cannot recall the last episode. He still wakes, but gently. Of late, I am more likely to find him sitting up in one of our beds, reading; or be roused and then lulled in the wee hours by the strains of Wieniawski's "Romance;" or discover him sitting across the room, watching me sleep, which could be somewhat unsettling while never quite upsetting.

On the other hand, there were times, like the morning of which I write, when he seemed not to dream, and nothing short of an earthquake could wrest him from Morpheus's grasp.

Outside, Heaven was still throwing its daggers of ice at mankind. I rolled over to check the clock, knowing that I would soon have to rise and prepare myself as a willing target of the fury.

Tags: holmes/watson, my fic, sherlock holmes, wip
Current Mood: nostalgic