Cuppa
It was no use. I got out of bed and went downstairs on the pretext of tea. If he was contentedly puffing away in his armchair, I would leave him to it, but it was quite as bad as I had feared. I usually like a pipe—at least, I usually liked the smell of Holmes' pipe—but the air of our sitting room was befouled with smoke and the mood of my husband was as dark and impenetrable as the fug that surrounded him. He registered my passing—I felt his eyes fasten balefully on my back—so there was nothing for it but to actually make the requisite pot of tea. I fretted in our kitchen, my feet cold on the floor, as I waited for the water to heat.
If I had really wanted tea, I might have pulled the pot before it whistled—I have been known to be impatient with things culinary—but tonight was high theatre instead. I waited for the first wail of the kettle because I knew he would expect to hear it, and I did not fancy being caught by him in a lie in the mood he was in.
Finally, the shrill, thin pipe of the kettle sounded. I filled the teapot, put on the cozy and threw a cream pitcher and some random biscuits onto a wooden tray and backed through the door, planning to brave it out. My attempts at subterfuge were for naught.
"I do not need to be checked up on," said Holmes coldly. If there had not been such animosity in his eyes I might have laughed at the picture he made. He sat huddled aggressively in that horrible dressing gown, glaring at me and pulling so furiously on his pipe that I knew he could draw no pleasure from either its stimulus or the soothing comfort of familiarity.
I bristled, but the sight of his haggard face and the sooty smudges under his eyes softened my response.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I sniffed, though I dared not look at him with so bold a lie on my tongue. "I couldn't sleep. I came down for tea."
"A pretext," he snapped. "When you make tea, you don't wait for the kettle to whistle."
I slapped the tray down on the table, jarring but not upsetting the crockery.
"Oh for decency's sake," I said. "Stop being so paranoid about everything."
He gave an elaborate sniff and withdrew into the folds of the gown. For a man so tall and solidly built, Holmes could shrink down into nothing like a spider retreating into a crack in the wall. Again, the aloneness of his self-imposed exile tugged at me, and my momentary ire fled. I crossed the room and sat down on the footstool near him, tucking the edges of my gown beneath my freezing feet.
"Why don't you tell me about it—"
"I have already done so!"
"—again," I finished levelly, willing my voice not to show irritation.
"For what possible purpose?" he muttered. "I've already looked at it from every conceivable angle."
Except, perhaps, the vantage point of a decently fed and well-rested body, I thought, but I knew better than to say it. He was, as it turned out, completely correct—the final piece of this convoluted puzzle—the piece that would make everything else fall neatly into place around it—was beyond him now, unavailable until later events would reveal it.
"Then…" I said, smiling as gently as I could. "If tobacco won't solve this, perhaps rest will."
"Rest, bah!" said Holmes. He ran a hand through his dark hair, and I was seized suddenly with the desire to do the same. "What good is rest? I need facts!"
He had turned away and did not see me rise nor approach until my hand was almost on his glossy head, then he turned suddenly, startled and caught my wrist. "Russell," he muttered. "What the devil are you doing?"
He only had a grip on one wrist. My other hand rose to complete the task, stroking his dark hair fondly. Holmes allowed it, shifting uneasily, but when my hand cupped his face and turned his countenance up to mine, his expression softened a little.
"If rest won't do," I said softly, "perhaps exertion…?" I let the invitation hang on the smoky air. Despite my natural reserve, I let him see the hope and entreaty on my face. His eyes flashed wide for a split-second and I thought, perhaps, that he colored slightly, but then he said, quite calmly.
"What did you have in mind, Russell? A brisk constitutional around the city?"
I let my own amusement show, but indicated my cotton nightshirt.
"I'm not dressed for a walk," I said, suddenly feeling his awareness of me beneath the shirt. "And neither are you."
"Russell," Holmes began. My heart sank, but then he took the pipe out of his mouth, and I knew I had him.
He gave a little tug, pulling me into his lap. I am not petite, but Holmes, who had seemed so diminished moments ago, seemed now quite the proper size to hold his wife on his lap. With an amused expression, Holmes tucked the gown under my feet before turning his attention to the rest of me.
For a long moment, Holmes and I studied each other. His face was thoughtful, his eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy, then he put one long-fingered hand behind my neck and kissed me.
Kissing is a curious art, is it not? I say that Holmes kissed me and not that we kissed each other because, just before his lips covered mine, he shifted his hold on my form. I startled slightly as my head tipped back, and he put his lips over mine with great deliberation. After a scant two months of married life, I had teased Holmes that he ought to write a monograph on the subject. He had responded with something rude—and more kisses. While the subject was still a sore spot, and I had but to mention it to bring him to shouts, he nevertheless flushed at the suggestion and I think some part of his vanity was pleased.
Holmes had known me long enough and ought to have known me well enough to know that I did not flatter without cause. As I have mentioned, Holmes is a serious student of the obscure, the arcane and...the useful. He was capable of reducing me to hormones and bare need, but I had been his student for too long not to know his methods—and how to employ them.
I put my hands on his chest beneath the lapels of his dressing gown. It seemed funny to me, since I am always more apt to associate Holmes with quicksilver than molten iron, but his skin beneath the silk was warm, branding my palms with heat. I felt the tension in his muscles wrought by sleeplessness and mental exertion, but some of that tension was seeping out, to be replaced by a coiled readiness that was oh-so-familiar to me.
Holmes' purchase on my frame had become more intimate, and my head fell back against his shoulder.
"Holmes," I murmured against his mouth, but he deigned to answer, his mouth being rather too busy for speech. I opened my mouth to speak but found my vulnerability taken advantage of as he pressed his suit. It took me a long time to remember what it was I had hoped to say, but awareness of my surroundings came in spite of his skill as a lover.
"Holmes," I said, while he pressed a gasp-inducing kiss against my neck.
"Yes, Russell," he murmured indulgently.
"You—you really stink."
He paused for a moment, and I felt his frame tighten.
"It's this terrible old dressing gown—it smells like it's been through a thousand house fires."
Suddenly, Holmes began to whoop with laughter.
"My God, Russell," he said, laughing great laughs that made his whole body quiver. "What a marvelous facility you have for pillow talk."
I wrinkled my nose with distaste, but managed, at last, to take his face between my hands and kiss his laughing mouth. He let me the first time, but on the second he joined me, until we were without question kissing each other thoroughly.
With a sudden movement, Holmes stood, my tall figure still cradled in his arms.
It sounds wonderfully romantic to say that Holmes carried me off to the marriage bed, but the truth of the matter is that Holmes and I had both had numerous occasions to have to carry each other, and the act had lost some of its charm. Besides, unless one is careful, you are apt to whack your head or your heels going 'round the corners. He sat me down on my feet but kept his arms around me for longer than necessary.
"Since you object to my attire, I shall have to do something about it," Holmes said lazily.
"I do object to your attire," I answered, not adding that—at the moment—I objecting to any clothing between us whatsoever. Though I did not say it, Holmes divined my meaning and a wide, wicked smile spread across his face. He set me back from him but touched my face to soften the parting.
"Let me dispose of the offending article and tend the fire. I'll come up in a moment."
I eyed him skeptically, wondering if he'd slump back into the chair with his pipe, but the alacrity with which he stripped off the dressing gown and hung it over the chair convinced me that I would find him by my side in a moment. I collected the tea tray and started up the stairs.
"Holmes?" I said, my foot on the step.
"Yes, Russell?"
I regarded him steadily. "What gave me away?"
Holmes voice was muffled as he bent to the fire. "The cozy," he said.
My silence must have indicated my absolute puzzlement, for he turned his shining eyes upon me.
"Russell," he said, patiently, as though explaining things to Watson. "You wouldn't have wanted the cozy unless you hoped to keep the tea hot for a…" His eyes were on mine, alive with possibilities. "…a long time," he finished, straightening at last.
I covered my blush by turning and all but bolting up the stairs. In a moment, I heard his light tread on the steps behind me, and dived into the bed.
As usual, Holmes was completely correct. The tea was remarkably hot a long, long time later when I finally poured myself—and Holmes—a cup.