Author's Note/Series Note: A child of several spirited Twitter conversations, "The 12 Days of Sexmas" marathon is an ode to Helen and John. The idea is very simple: Throughout the month of December, a group of authors will be posting stories that include: Helen/John, Smut, and Christmas. Any other details are up to the author! Good/Evil John, Established/New relationship, drabble or drama… Whatever! We hope you enjoy our festive offerings. If anyone wants to jump into the fray and contribute, please contact MajorSam at: majorsam_ for details! Enjoy!
The 12 Days of Sexmas so far:
Prologue: Naughty and Nice, by NoCleverSig
Part 1: Peppermint Twist, by NoCleverSig
Part 2: Christmas in Corsets, by MajorSam
Part 3: The Wine Tasting, by NoCleverSig
Part 4: Biggie's Gift of the Nubbin, by ladydeadlock
Part 5: Eggnog and Embers, by MajorSam
Part 6: The Kissing Bough, by NoCleverSig
The 12 Days of Sexmas:
The Kissing Bough
(Copyright 2010, NoCleverSig)
Christmas 1984
The cold, winter wind whipped across the Thames washing over Helen Magnus like an icy ghost. Helen trembled at its frosty touch and hugged herself tighter; rubbing the smooth, velvet sleeves of her dark, blue evening dress.
She'd come here, to the London Sanctuary, at James Watson's invitation. "It'll do your soul good, Helen," he'd told her. "Come home. Spend Christmas in London. We've missed you. I've missed you."
So she'd accepted, knowing full well that while James wouldn't lie about missing his dearest friend, his reason for inviting her was far more altruistic. He was worried about her. They all were. And for one of the few times in her life, she was worried too.
Dev had left her; his timing, the week before Christmas, impeccable as always. He had quit the Sanctuary and quit her, an event that had uncharacteristically blindsided Helen. Over the years she had grown morosely accustomed to the fact of friends and lovers dying. But leaving? Breaking up? That was a rarity. Although she wasn't in love with Dev, she cared about him, and the realization that she was once again alone left Magnus with a melancholy that enveloped her like a funeral shroud.
What the hell was wrong with her that every relationship she had, man or woman, ended in death or desertion?
She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, opening them again to watch the grey mist that formed like a phantom before her as she exhaled. Despite the gloom, the view from the roof of the London Sanctuary was spectacular. Helen scanned the calm waters of the Thames toward Tower Bridge, watching the dark, grey clouds roll in over the city toward St. Paul's. There was to be snow tonight, a thought that made her shudder with anticipation but fueled the party goers below. Even now, standing on the ramparts of the Sanctuary tower, she could hear snippets of carols being sung by her friends downstairs, a tradition Watson hadn't let die since Queen Victoria. The music traveled along the crisp breeze greeting Magnus as she stood there silently, carrying with it the shadows of Christmases past.
Christmas Eve, 1885
John Druitt held Helen Magnus at a discreet distance as they danced, their blue eyes locked on one another's. James had rolled up the Persian carpets of his rather large parlor and turned it into a dance floor for his guests. The music, mirth, and mulled wine flowed vigorously this Christmas Eve. The Christmas tree, still a rather new tradition by English standards, stood in the corner, decorations of candles and ribbons and glass ornaments, newly acquired from Germany, being laden upon it by the younger ladies under the direction of Nikola Tesla himself, who had seized the opportunity to oversee a project and direct it to his satisfaction.
Couples twirled around them as Nigel Griffin played Watson's piano and they waltzed, the swishing of dresses, the murmuring of voices, the clink of crystal cups, the splash of colors all circling about them in slow motion as they moved. Yet all Helen could feel was the heat of John's arm gripping her waist, the strength of his shoulder under her hand, and the cautious caress of his fingers as he intertwined his with hers and guided her across the dance floor. His gaze was unrelenting as he held her eyes with his, never breaking contact. His smile was a promise of pleasures to come that made Helen's heart race and a flame sear through her center. Every fiber of her being told her to damn convention, grab John by the hand, slip away from the party, and pull him upstairs so they could finish this dance alone. She was his bride to be, and this would be their last Christmas apart.
John didn't miss the heat in Helen's eyes and, with impressive skill, maneuvered them out of the stream of dancers into the quiet of the entranceway back behind the stairs, just out of sight of the parlor.
"I thought we could…use a moment," he whispered breathlessly, the exhilaration of the dancing and the nearness of his lover almost overwhelming him.
"John…," Helen started, coming to her senses and glancing behind her. "If we're caught…"
John laughed and lifted his head, causing Helen to follow his eyes upwards. Above them hung a round ball festively covered with mistletoe, lavender, ribbons, and bright red Holly berries.
Helen looked at him, puzzled. "John, the kissing bough was in the center of the hallway tonight. How did it end up…."
"I moved it," he said, smirking. "When James wasn't looking. Kissing my lady under the kissing bough on Christmas Eve is perfectly acceptable, my love. But I'd still like to do so in private. And if we are caught…well...," he glanced up again at the ball. "Tis Christmas Eve after all."
Helen grinned, impressed at John's incredible foresight.
"Aren't we to pick a berry from the ball for each kiss we steal?" she asked coyly, her blue eyes glimmering with mirth.
John could feel his own body heating up, hardening, responding to the waves of joy and delight radiating from his lover.
"In theory, yes," he said. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a generous handful of red berries. "But I've come prepared."
Helen laughed, threw her arms around John's neck, and without so much as a look behind her began the ritual.
"You'll catch your death out here."
The sinister, masculine voice echoed behind her, sending a shiver up Helen's spine that had nothing to do with the cold, jarring her out of her reverie.
"How are you...feeling, John?" she asked instantly recognizing Druitt's voice, refusing to turn around, her simple question layered with meaning.
She heard the rumble of soft laughter and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching her. Magnus tensed, bracing herself for whatever might happen next.
"Myself…more or less," he replied noncommittally.
Helen closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the tension that had been building inside her.
"The EM shield is down tonight," he observed, moving closer to her. "How very careless of James." John Druitt stood beside Helen now, his black leather coat thrashing around him in the wind, a stark contrast to the ghostly pallor of his skin.
He'd changed over the years, she thought, turning to look at him, as had she. She'd long ago forgone the innocent blonde curls of her youth for a darker appearance that better fit her life and her purpose. He'd shaved his head, ridding himself of the thick brown hair that held just a hint of auburn when the sun fell on it just so. Whether he did it to add to his menacing demeanor or as a visible penance for his crimes, she wasn't sure.
Yet one thing between them remained unaffected. John still knew her thoughts simply by gazing at her. She recognized, from the sound of his voice, that he understood she was the one who had purposefully turned off the EM shield as she left the party, knowing it would act like a homing beacon beckoning him to her.
In short, she had sought him out, shamelessly, carelessly placing herself and others in harm's way because only this man could ease the melancholy that had corrupted her soul. Good or bad, right or wrong, John Druitt was the one constant in her life. The only person who made her feel…something, even if that something resulted only in pain and regret.
Druitt regarded her. His expression was more curious than threatening. "What are you doing here tonight, Helen?" he asked quietly.
She paused and looked back over the Thames, the cold wind lashing at her hair. "I needed some fresh air," she answered eventually.
Druitt smiled knowingly. "And that bloke you've been running with. He doesn't want to enjoy the fresh air with you, my dear?" he teased, an unmistakable note of bitterness in his voice.
How did he know about Dev? Did he follow her? Sometimes she thought that he might. There had been days over the years when she could almost feel his presence closing in on her, smell his skin, hear his voice like a whisper on the wind.
Helen took a deep breath. "We aren't together anymore," she answered softly.
Druitt was silent for a beat, the icy wind whipping at their clothes. The muffled sound of Christmas music from the ballroom below was the only noise she could hear. Finally, John let out a satisfied, "Ah," and from the corner of her eye she saw him nod.
He knew what she wanted. They both did.
He reached out a hand and enfolded hers in his. "You're freezing, my dear," he said. "Let me warm you."
If she closed her eyes, which she did, she could almost hear John speaking to her, the John she'd known, the one who had asked her to marry him, who loved her, who waltzed her into quiet stairwells to steal sweet kisses on Christmas Eve.
He pulled her close against him, wrapping his arms around her back, pressing her tightly against his chest, uncomfortably so. In the blink of an eye, he spun her around and slammed her hard against the rock wall beside them, pinning her against the solid stone with his massive hands, leering at her.
"What is it you want, Helen?" he snarled. "Tell me! Say it!" he yelled. His eyes flashed at her like a shark, terrifying in their blackness.
The first few flakes of snow drifted from the sky, their pure whiteness contrasting with the dark of Druitt's coat, melting as soon as they touched the glossy leather. Helen watched as the crystals turned into liquid and looked back at him, unshed tears forming in her eyes.
"You, John. Just you. Somewhere inside…I want you. Please, John," she begged.
The predatory light flickered in Druitt's eyes. Suddenly his mouth crushed against hers, cutting her, making her bleed, his tongue pushing through her open lips, drowning her, choking the life out of her. She put her hands to his chest and pushed him away, hard, forcing him to break the kiss so that she could breathe again.
They stared at one another, breathless, Druitt's hands still holding Helen's shoulders tight against the wall, pinning her, threatening her. But his eyes…his eyes shifted. The flicker she'd seen, the blackness was gone. All that remained was the deep blue that she had drowned in that Christmas Eve so many years ago.
"John?" she asked, her voice full of hope and recognition.
He smiled at her…almost kindly, let go of her shoulders, and trailed the back of his hand down her cheek, the other he slipped around her waist.
"Helen," he answered gently. "I've missed you…." He leaned in and kissed her, this time soft and slow, lapping the blood from her lip. The snow fell faster, the flakes now fluffy balls of white hovering over, on, and around them. Helen wrapped her arms around John's neck and deepened the kiss, reveling in the familiar taste of him, the smell, the warmth of his mouth, the sensation of his body against hers once more.
John gripped her with one arm about her waist, with the other he reached under her dress and eased her panties down, slipping his fingers into her warm, moist center, sighing as he did so. Helen closed her eyes and lifted her legs to step out of the thin, black cloth, pressing her body against his, urging his hand forward.
With both hands she reached under his coat, immediately finding the hardness that had been building there. She felt him through his pants, the skillful movement of her fingers causing him to stroke her even harder, faster under her smooth, velvet dress. John deepened the kiss impossibly more, his tongue seeking hers out, finding her, then losing her again. Frustrated, he moved his hands out of her, unzipped his pants, and unleashed his manhood, grabbing her by the arms. Helen grasped the bulging warmth in her hands, stroking him up and down making him unbelievably taut, feeling his erection growing ever larger in her hands.
John let go of her arms and reached under Helen's legs. Supporting her by her thighs, he lifted her up, stepped forward and pinned her once more against the hard, rock wall. Without preamble he thrust into her, causing Helen to gasp in shock at the width and depth of him. She held on to his neck for dear life as he buried himself into her, pounding against her over and over again, his rhythm growing faster and faster, slamming his body into hers and smashing her against the cold stone, making her cry out in a heady mixture of pleasure and pain.
As he sped up, John moved from her lips to her neck, burying his head into her collar, lifting her legs with both arms and wrapping them around his waist for leverage. With one final thrust he spilled his seed into her bringing her tumbling with him, her muscles clenching around him, her body convulsing against his hips.
In the distance, Big Ben began to chime.
He held her there against the wall, both of them still, listening as the clock finally sounded midnight.
"Merry Christmas, Helen," John whispered into her ear when the clock had finished its final toll.
The snow that had been falling changed over to rain, sprinkling across Druitt's duster with translucent specks that slid down his leather coat like silent tears.
"Merry Christmas, John," Helen managed, stifling a sob.
He pulled out of her and stepped back, leaving her cold and bereft. Setting her down on her feet, he paused to look at her and reached up to wipe a tear away when he suddenly stopped, his hand trembling.
"I need to go," he stammered, his voice shaking.
Helen could see his control slipping, the beast returning to reclaim its realm.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. John turned, then stopped, reached into the inner pocket of his coat, and pulled out a small, velvet bag. He pressed it into Helen's hands, caressing her fingers as he did so, then pulled away from her. With a final smile, his eyes turned black, the warmth faded from his face, and he vanished into the dark, London night.
Helen fell back against the wall, the freezing rain chilling her to the bone. Finally, she looked down, opened her hands, and pulled at the cords of the blue, velvet bag he'd given her. Lifting it up, she tilted it and tipped the contents into her frozen, open hand.
Out of it fell dozens of bright, red berries.
She let loose the sob she had been trying so hard to stifle and stared at the small, red orbs in wonder, her tears mixing with the cold, London rain.
END