I rolled over and huffed a sigh, then rolled over once again and repeated the noise of displeasure. It didn't actually aid in easing my discomfort, and I succeeded in irking my companion for the last time.
"For god's sake, Russell. Must you continue with that infernal huffing?"
For the first time in our wanderings, the first time in many weeks where nothing had gone right, I was surprised to feel my eyes pooling with tears.
"Mary?" Holmes' tone held a note of confusion. I rolled over and faced my back to him so I could try and muffle those godawful tears with my stained and oily sleeves. Nonetheless, my body was intent upon leaking.
At first, I thought Holmes was ignoring me out of sheer annoyance. Then an awkward cough belayed the fact that he was, in fact, nonplussed by my sudden show of female emotion.
My throat constricted in some sort of crossroads between a hiccup, chuckle, and sob. I ended up spewing mucus across the dusty ground and inhaling it right back in again. Finally, a mystery the great Sherlock Holmes is duped by… the feminine persona.
A waterskin soared over my head and landed an inch away from my nose. I doled out a mouthful of water and rinsed the dirt from my mouth, saving a few drops to scrub at my undereyes.
"I'm going out." I said in Arabic to Holmes, dropping the skin and crawling to the tentflap. If he said anything, I didn't hear it.
The sun was only barely considering showing its rays beyond the rise, the night was still cold on my damp face and hands. Nothing moved in the sand before me, although I had neglected to bring along my spectacles, so I wouldn't have been able to see if my walk was accompanied by some of the desert wildlife.
Now that I was out, it seemed stupid to be wasting energy wandering around the nearby terrain if all I was going to do in a few hours was traverse another few miles of it. But I couldn't go back to the tent, Holmes would – well, whatever he would do, It would likely set me to crying again. Once started, an engine rarely stops before its fuel is spent.
I needed a short respite from the weeks of hard desert life, then I would be right as rain to continue this charade into… well, whatever came of it.
I sat down on the ground (rather harder than I meant to) and deflated. The tears came out unabashed, rolling through the muck on my face and dripping onto my filthy tunic.
"Really, Russ. This is most unlike you." Holmes materialized at my right, obviously agitated.
"Can't a man go out into the desert for some peace?" I asked in Arabic, cringing at the pathetic whine my voice came out in.
"If god wills." Holmes replied. "Would it help you to be alone?"
A whole mass of ugly emotions reared their heads at me, making the mostly burnt bread from last night's meal threaten to come back up. I let my head drop onto Holmes' shoulder, relishing the momentary peace it brought.
"I suppose not." I said.
"Good. Now will you quit this charade and come back to the tent where we can discuss this without jeopardizing our cover?"
I nodded into his shoulder and found myself swiftly swept off the ground and into his arms.
"Holmes, your back." I protested.
"Quiet, Russell." He growled back.
Once in the tent I was deposited (none too gently) onto the sandy ground and Holmes' rug that served as a bed.
"Now, Mary Russell, you are not prone to fits. I assume this outburst has something to do with the conditions at hand."
I nodded, hanging my head. For a small moment I had deluded myself into thinking that Holmes was going to comfort me. This, however, was turning into a proper scolding.
"Well?" Holmes asked.
"Never mind, Holmes." I said tiredly. I crawled off his blanket and to my own rug, facing away from him.
"Russell." He said, familiar annoyance creeping into his tone.
"I just need to shed some emotion, Holmes. Forgive me for showing human weakness." I said softly. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you." I turned to my stomach and put my face in the rug to mop up the tears once again and avoid the dust incident of moments previous.
This time, Holmes was the one to heave an irate sigh. I shut my eyes and forced my mind to recite the Arabic alphabet. When I reached the end, I moved on to the Hebrew alphabet.
Holmes shifted, coming close to me and settling on the rug. A heavy hand came to rest on my shoulder, then gently began to apply pressure. I nearly began crying again just at the relief the movement of his fingertips radiated. After a few minutes, his hand drifted down, causing me to wince as it rubbed against the raw edge of where my chest bindings had started to work away at my skin.
"Russell, are you injured?" Holmes asked, noting my change in posture at the pain.
"No, Holmes. I'm afraid it's collateral of this clever disguise." I replied.
"Show me." He said sharply.
"Holmes, I hardly think-"
"Russell, should those wounds fester and become infected, you will be of absolutely no use and I shall be forced to leave you in the desert for the jackals. Then your education would be quite wasted."
I sighed and sat up, loosening the ties on my loose overshirt and hauling it over my head while Holmes politely averted his eyes.
I began to unravel the chest bindings one at a time, sighing in relief as my ribs expanded and my breasts fell loose. I hadn't had the opportunity to undress since our swim in the Dead Sea, days of hunger had caught up to my already wiry frame. My ribs were clearly visible and I could swear my breasts were considerably reduced in size. I wouldn't be able to fill a proper silhouette upon our return to London. I sighed and gathered my undershirt to my chest.
"Holmes." I said softly. Sherlock turned his gaze to me and blinked hard.
"Good Lord, Mary. What have I done to you?" He said in amazement. I turned my eyes down as I realized he saw the same changes in my figure as I did.
"The welts?" I asked.
Holmes set his mouth in a hard line and went to his pack in the corner to retrieve what meager first aid supplies he had with him. A bottle of foul-smelling salve and a fresh bandage appeared.
I was anticipating Holmes' touch to be rough, but when he dabbed the salve to my back and ribs it was incredibly gentle. When he finished he passed the vial to me and averted his eyes once more. I performed a quicker and less gentle application on the chafed areas on my front, wincing at the stinging sensation.
"You're better at this than I am, Damnit Holmes." I huffed, trying to reach a spot underneath my arm. Holmes' eyes flicked to me inadvertently.
Our eyes held a moment, and then our color deepened. My body betrayed me by responding to the memory of Holmes' eyes lingering for one solitary moment on my naked breast.
"I-I'm sorry." I stuttered, pulling on my shirt and letting the moment slip away.
To my surprise, Holmes didn't respond. He merely looked at me, a myriad of emotions playing across his face.
"Say something." I said.
He didn't.
The tension wasn't receding from the moment. Instead, it felt like the tent was suddenly a thousand degrees. I could feel a trickle of nervous sweat run down between my naked breasts.
I wasn't inexperienced in these things, but I was inexperienced with Holmes. He had previously shied from any and all advances I'd made in his direction. But something told me he was wavering like a boulder on the edge of a cliff. All I needed to do was give him a push.
I reached out and took one of his dirty, calloused hands in mine. Then I gently laid it on my breast, which was barely rising from the folds on my voluminous cotton shirt. Holmes did absolutely nothing.
In a voice that sounded much more confident than I felt, I found myself seducing Sherlock Holmes.
"We are in the furthest corner of the world." I said. "If you were to do something within the confines of this tent, no one would ever know."
I could have sworn Holmes' eyes bulged. Not only had I never played the role of the temptress within the scope of his all-seeing eyes, but I was fairly sure he hadn't been seriously propositioned in years.
"Russell…" It came out as a seriously astonished croak.
"This is your chance." I said, driving the nail home. He was undone.
It was, in short, not the cleanest of affairs. Holmes was quick and matter of fact in his lovemaking. When he arrived at climax, he quickly pulled away and finished into a handkerchief that materialized from god knows where. I was quiet throughout the affair but blissfully satisfied, having forgone my usual means of satisfaction at Oxford for some weeks due to recent events.
Holmes rolled away and set to tidying himself as best as he could. I pulled on my clothes and fished out a wadded away rag I'd been saving for any female necessities, should they arise to complicate things while disguised as a man. It did the job.
"Russell, I mean... Mary. Mary, I have some questions." Sherlock finally said, once he was returned to his original state of dress. There were spots of color in his cheeks that hadn't been there before, I noticed.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry-"
"Please." He held up a hand. I quieted, hanging my head. The happy feelings were evaporating, leaving me feeling quite odd and rather guilty.
"I would be correct in assuming that you consented to the act we just committed?" He continued. I nodded.
"I would also be correct in assuming that you're rather experienced in the matters of the bedroom?" I nodded. "Dear god, how? You play a downright blushing flower."
"I..." I faltered. "It's not... Well, it's not very simple."
"It never is."
"I got into a situation at Oxford that was beyond my means, the positive is that I discovered what is enjoyable when one is discreet. The negative, well, is that I do not easily give myself to just anyone. I think that is reasonable."
"Quite. How come this is the first I am hearing of such a situation?"
"Holmes, if I called on you for every single thing in my life, we might as well just sign the conjugal certificate now."
Holmes blinked at my attempt at humor, and I realized that he was genuinely distressed.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was an inappropriate jest. This situation occurred during our separation and it cleared with my sudden departure from Oxford. Forgive me."
I had no idea what was going on in his head at that moment. The only thing I could think of was to apologize, and that brought back all the stupid emotions from earlier.
"I'm sorry." I whispered.
"Dear god, Russ. You haven't even told me what started all this." Suddenly I was wrapped in an embrace. I was so surprised, I didn't move for a moment. then I let my hands settle on his broad shoulders.
"I was overwhelmed for a moment, all the worries this adventure has postponed catching up with me."
"Dear heart." He muttered into my hair. "What have I gotten you into?"
"Nothing I can't handle." I said, punctuating my statement with a sniffle. I wiped my eyes on his filthy tunic. "I'll be back to carousing the desert with mules and madmen after a spot of coffee."
Holmes chuckled, a sound I hadn't heard in some time. Then he grew grave.
"You know that this can't continue." He said, his reluctance to admit it staring back at me in his dark eyes.
"I know. But I also rather think anything we do here stays here." I replied. Holmes looked like he couldn't really construe the exact meaning of my words, and rather than deal with it any more, promptly left the tent, leaving me to finish putting my appearance together and to finish the good cry I'd started an hour before in earnest. By the time I had finished, the sounds of camp breaking and breakfast cooking had reached full din.
And that was the first of Holmes' and I's dalliances while tramping back and forth across the whole of Palestine.