A Victorian Rave?
by LaDine, revised and corrected by Susannah Shepherd
It was extremely painful for me to see the needle, resting after use, on the table of Holmes's chamber at Musgrave mansion. We had come, or so thought I, to escape the routine of the absence of work, to run away from this particular and disastrous habit towards which Holmes had a tendency when he felt vacuous.
I had, innocently but maliciously too, entered his room to obtain (just for a while, certainly) the notes he had taken of his previous cases, those which he had carefully hidden from me all that time. Since I knew about their existence, I had desired to consult them, nevertheless, Holmes had been irrationally protective towards these notes.
Before I took notice of the dangerous needle, I had heard him singing while he was preparing himself for supper. I almost regretted my intention then, until I sat before the trunk, and saw the object. I felt sad, overwhelmed and worried, and I could hardly rise and get out of the room.
All through the evening I tried to be a good guest to Musgrave, who was undoubtedly enjoying our company, and to observe my friend's unnatural behaviour, the result of mixing cocaine and alcohol. He appeared strangely amused, and although I secretly liked seeing him in this mood, I was also concerned about him. His remarks were short, quick and humorous, and his gaze was penetrating, as if he could see our innermost thoughts. Almost everything seemed to be funny to him that night.
When Brunton came in again to refill our glasses with some more brandy, and he offered it to Holmes, I considered the possibility of taking away the glass from him. I was relieved when I heard him decline. Holmes fixed his eyes on the butler, then he rose, and followed him as if he wished to see inside him, so intense was his gaze. He paced the room as if there were nobody else there, until I came near glaring at him with no very friendly eyes, trying in vain to get a bit of his attention. Those were difficult moments, for Musgrave was addressing me and I had to answer him, but I was unable to take my eyes off Holmes. He went to the fireplace and reclined his forehead on his hand, I could not say whether dizzy, terribly amused, or simply tired. When Brunton finally went out of the room, Holmes exploded into laughter, and Musgrave and I followed him, so infectious was his laugh. I started to feel light-headed, less anxious, and I realised that I was somehow indulging myself with the brandy. The smoke around us, the warmth of the flames and the taste of brandy in my mouth were hypnotising me, and giving me too some kind of sweet unconsciousness and pleasure.
As we kept on talking, the whole room became hazy and I thought no more about the duties of friendship. I was enjoying the evening and the sight of Holmes in that state, without any feeling of guilt this time. I even suggested to myself that I might take advantage of the situation and to try to get what I wanted from Holmes. I knew how much he liked being praised, so I chose this way to make it easy. To my surprise, flattery was not useful this time, as Holmes was not at all unaware of my real intentions.
"So my dear Watson is trying to cajole me by flattering me in the most impudent manner I have ever seen! My dear friend, whom I used to trust, is trying to deceive me!" he said mockingly. I could not but smile shamelessly at this.
"I was only teasing you," I lied.
"Of course you were. You know me well enough, don't you?" said he, leaning on the sofa. If I (and he) had been someone else, I would have thought he was flirting. He certainly was Holmes, and I, Watson.
"I beg your pardon, but I don't know what you are talking about." Musgrave interrupted.
"Our dear Watson was pretending to flatter me in order to get from me some notes I have from my first cases. That's all, isn't it, Watson?" he asked, grinning this time.
"That's right, I suppose." I did not know what Holmes was referring to with this question, but I was really enjoying the game.
"That's it. Any more questions, Musgrave? Any comment, perhaps?" Musgrave seemed to be a little baffled. Nonetheless, he smiled to us both.
"You're room-mattes after all! It's difficult to join in a private joke," he said at last.
"Private! I'm not sure you know the word, Watson. It means 'personal, secret, not to be shared with others'. Would you care to include it in your vocabulary?", he asked me, mocking me again.
"Room-mattes, Holmes. Did you know we were that? It means that we *share* a home, expenses, time... and some other things, sometimes *dangerous* things," I answered, smiling. "That often implies confidence. Do you know this word?" It was certainly a delightful comedy.
"What kind of *dangerous* things, Watson? And, what kind of confidence?" I did not know then how long I could continue that conversation, and neither could I foresee how far it would lead. All I knew was that Holmes and I were having a little, friendly quarrel.
"Sometimes... illegal ones," I answered, calmly, to his first question.
"That's enough! That's enough, gentlemen, for me, at least." Musgrave interrupted again, laughing. "I'm going to bed. You may stay here, if you wish. I hope not to find you harmed, doctor, tomorrow morning. I know Holmes' fists. Good night, gentlemen." And he went out of the parlour.
Holmes and I remained there in silence for a few long minutes. My friend was leaning on the sofa, smoking a cigarette, languidly, and contemplating the fire. Then, he turned his head a little to look at me.
"What kind of confidence, Watson?" He was not mocking me now.
The heat from the fire was at this point unbearable. The whole room was dense, suffocating, and I could not swear that the flush of my face and, the flush of my friend's own face, were only due to the flames, the smoky fog, or the alcohol.
"I should be much obliged to you, if you would be kind enough to show me your documents," I requested, in a polite manner, inappropriate to us most of the time.
"What kind of confidence?" He asked one more time. He started to smile, steadily fixing his eyes on mine, making the ambiguous atmosphere return to the rarefied air.
"You trust me." I paused. "And I trust you."
"You desire to see my notes, don't you?" He was almost murmuring, his voice so low and so sweet. I nodded, slowly. "Do you hope to find them... interesting?"
"I find all of your cases interesting. You already know that." And I could not help adding, "You're a most interesting man, Holmes."
"Flattering me again, Watson? I see you are indeed aroused by the idea of consulting them," he paused to light a cigarette. "What would you do for these poor notes of mine, Watson?"
I was resolved in getting them, an obsessive idea for I, somehow had wanted it to be so. I sighed and swallowed.
"What do you want me to do?", asked I.
"I'm not sure, Watson. I..." He paused. Then, he gave a wicked grin. "May I suggest that we go to my room to discuss it further?" His appearance was as self-confident as it always was, but I could hear his voice trembling a little. Could it be that he was frightened too?
When we entered his bedroom I found it warm, but perhaps the contrast between the claustrophobic parlour and the clean air of the room made me shiver.
"Are you cold Watson?"
"I'm fine, thanks, Holmes" But I noticed he was shivering too. He stopped in front of his trunk, the one which had brought us here. He sat on it casually, and looked up from his feet smiling at me weakly.
"I hope you will be reasonable in your request." I said. Holmes turned his head to the table, and handled a little bottle.
"What about... join me in this, Watson? I would be delighted to see you under its effects. Maybe not? Of course, you look well enough for tonight. And if you... Could you... inject me, Watson? Would you do it for me?", he requested, rubbing his fingers lightly over the bottle's surface. My face turned serious as I recovered some of my concern.
"Are you really asking me to do that? It would be... extremely difficult for me, Holmes." I said that sadly, but sweetly.
"Would you mind lighting a cigarette for me instead, Watson? Would it be asking too much?" As an answer, I picked up a cigarette from Holmes's case, put it between my lips and lit it. I exhaled the smoke slowly, as I came closer to my friend, who was still sitting on his trunk, with the cigarette between my fingers. Holmes leaned his head to meet my hand and took the cigarette touching my fingertips softly with his lips. I did not withdraw then, holding it while Holmes inhaled the smoke. He leaned back his head, letting the cigarette rest between my fingers. Looking at me shyly, he asked,
"Would you like to share it with me, Watson?" The sound of my name in his voice seemed to be constant that night. I raised my hand to my lips and felt the cigarette lightly wet by Holmes's saliva. It was a weird sensation, which flowed round my whole body like a wave. We remained there, gently covered with the smoke of our cigarette, without speaking, sharing our breath and moisture. When we finished it, Holmes' voice demanded something more.
"It has not been a high price, has it? I think I'm right if I request a little more." His eyes were as bright as they had been in the evening. Will you pick up one of those sweets from that box?. Musgrave has always been a kind of addict to them."
I led myself to the box at which he had pointed, and opened it, finding inside a large amount of sweets. I rested my hand on the table for a few moments, trying to collect myself, while I was feeling the gaze of Holmes fixed on the back of my head. Although his tone with me was soft, almost weak, the remains of his masterful manner were still present and, how weird it seemed to me this time! I was obeying him voluntarily, playing with him, allowing him to go on further. Knowing then, in front of the table, how far I would be disposed to go. We had been interchanging the leading role the whole night, encouraging one another to that... sensuous, puzzling, self- contradictory laissez-faire approach. Startled by this thought, trembling, I picked up two of those sweets, and turned to him.
He was still looking at me, his pupils dilated. The time I had been standing with my back to him seemed to have weakened his last careless tone of command.
"Put it into your mouth and... " he paused. His voice was almost a sigh. "Come here, please, Watson, come... closer."
I obeyed slowly, and then I resolutely approached him, trying not to show any shadow of my own weakness. I could see he was in that very moment the frightened one. I was standing there, only a few inches from him, always sitting on his trunk, his head looking upwards at me.
"Now, you are going to ask for it, aren't you? You certainly desire to taste it, do you?" I was looking downwards at him. I asked that seriously, letting escape from me all the disturbed tension that I was feeling. I was not intending to be rude and hostile at all, but in that closeness, my mind was reacting against my body. That was not the way. Whatever was going to happen, I should not miss the opportunity of seeking to discover his emotions.
Hearing this from me made him tremble, as his cheeks turned suddenly pale. The explicit awareness took him by surprise, and made him look faint. He bowed his head and I could see his right hand shaking half-way to his forehead.
"It's absurd, absurd, I... I'm... exhausted," he whispered. I bent down then, and placed my hands on his shoulders, holding him tightly. His eyes were still closed when I started to speak.
"My dear friend, are you all right?" asked I, in my sweetest manner, as I allowed my hand to caress his face softly, tilting his chin upwards. "We are already room-mates, after all, aren't we? You... trust me, Holmes, do you remember that? Are you... lacking confidence, my friend? I trust you, too." I smiled, and saw how he opened his eyes to look at me, sadly and tenderly. "So you don't desire to go on with this...," I smiled openly, "*illegal thing*?" He chuckled first, and then, shyly, he smiled at me. I took the other sweet between my fingers, and carefully put it into his mouth, feeling again his lips in my skin. Slowly, he raised one hand and held my arm, peering at my eyes with that tenderness which I had glimpsed only a few times.
"May I... touch you, Holmes?" I begged, failing to keep the leading role after that. I brushed my fingers softly across his cheek. A sudden shiver seemed to run through his body, and then he caught my hand. He paused, and asked,
"My dear fellow, don't you think it would have been easier if we had continued the game?" Apart from the content of his question, that was again the very Holmes I knew. His friendly grey eyes were brightening warmly and, for an instant, I felt back at home. I smiled at him again, enjoying as never the opportunity of sharing with him each moment of our intimate friendship.
"I'm not sure how it is going to develop, but I prefer this to that, Holmes." He smiled.
"You know I'm not the only eccentric one of Baker Street, Watson. We're indeed a nice couple!" He rubbed his hand on my arm.
We were there, looking at each other, but both of us unable to take the decision. Finally, Holmes did. He leaned forward a little, paused, and went on to place a chaste and almost imperceptible kiss on my cheek. I slid my hand around his neck to the back of his head and leaned my forehead on his chin. Then, I dared to touch his lips slightly with mine. That simple gesture was to me in that moment the most amazing thing I had ever made. I had kissed my friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes on the lips. His response was both inexpert and warm, for he pressed his mouth against mine tightly, as he leaned forward even more. The arousal of the evening rekindled vigorously, and we were trapped in a burning moment of lust and passion, in which I felt the physical needs of Holmes as he knelt down and pressed his upper body against mine. The awareness of his urgency only exacerbated my own desire. Our kiss gained confidence and intensity as Holmes wrapped his arms around me, making me feel all the love, loyalty, comprehension, solitude, suffering even, which had always been inside him.
My hands worked quickly and, when I saw his bare upper body, his chest moving up and down in the heat of the moment, all my previous experiences seemed frivolous and nasty. The starved flesh of my friend was clamouring for the pleasure of my care and attention, after those years of chastity and hidden need. I kissed his throat, his shoulders, noticing that my shy partner did not even dare to breath. I caressed his arms softly, and then I took one, the left one, and passed my hand over his bare forearm. I rubbed my thumb over the little marks I found there, and I could not stand looking at him with sadness. His reaction was startling. He opened his mouth as if he were going to talk, but in an instant took me in his arms in a tight embrace which lengthened into a few minutes.
A little after I felt his body relax, so I continued my exploration. But each time I took notice of his eyes fixed on mine, in a silent request of my... why not? my natural sweetness, I captured his mouth in deep kisses, until we both felt breathless.
The moment arrived when Holmes led me to the bed and began to undress me. His fingers, although accustomed to probes and tubes, had an exquisite sensuous touch, and they were giving me infinite pleasure with each caress he lavished under my shirt. It was so strange to me to see my friend and myself in such context! Perhaps neither of us had ever imagined that, or perhaps... those sinful nightmares which had surely woken us in the middle of the night, sweating and panicking, had not been undesirable after all.
When we were nude, pleasure, passion and endless delirium guided us through a thousand whispers and sighs to the kingdom of desire. What my fingers brushed and my mouth tasted, with his whole body at my mercy, pleased me and made me feel certain that my own need of filling him with my skin was indeed his own need. Softly and gently covered by the sweet treasure of his highest moment of pleasure, I entered him. So my friend presented me that night with the prize for all the years of humble devotion.
We lay on his bed in silence afterwards. Resting secure in his arms, my head on the pillow of his shoulder, I slept.
It had to be at dawn when I felt his hand rubbing my shoulder.
"Watson... Watson, are you awake yet?" he murmured.
"Good heavens, Holmes, what time is it?"
"The right one for you to get out of my room and to get back to your own," he said, frowning. I looked at him, bewildered and blinking.
"Holmes, I just can't believe it."
"I'm quite sleepy, and I don't want you to be caught here with me. My dear friend, do you want to send us to prison?" I could hardly avoid smiling, seeing Holmes returning to his usual practical mood.
"Of course not, Holmes," said I, putting the blankets aside. "But, what about your notes...?"
"Watson!"
"All right, I'm going. By the way," I added, pointing to the bottle of cocaine, "try to give it up, if you love me. It's no good for you, it isn't worth it and I don't like it." I did not hear his response, if there was one, for I slid out of the room, taking the bottle with me.