AN: Just a oneshot, nothing fancy. Got an idea and I went with it. Hope you enjoy.
Dr. John Watson
Sherlock Holmes, private detective. Though some people insist on referring to his unique frame of mind as crazy, there are those of us who dare to call him brilliant. Personally, I believe that there is but one word than can properly describe Holmes' exceptional character, and that word is eccentric. Having lived and worked alongside him for some years now, not a day has gone by that I have not stood witness to his unconventional traits or methods.
Some Londoners – notably those who only seem to know of him what they have heard by way of others – claim Holmes is a vulgar and even careless man, in his profession as well as his private life. Here I must naturally protest; I know this to be most untrue. Only if you have had the chance to study Sherlock Holmes' work up close and in detail can you truly come to appreciate what a delicate hand he possesses and how deeply his mind penetrates each clue and conundrum. In one sense, the way he works is reminiscent of a finely tuned artistic skill, even though it might seem chaotic and confused from the outside.
He is a man who is both scientifically and creatively gifted, and at all times does he pay the utmost attention to detail. One cannot deny his apparent talent, in particular his creativity. If you have heard his music, you will know of what I speak. The way he plays those strings; it is the most amazing thing that your ears will ever hear. No other musician could ever imitate it.
In short, Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant and inspiring man. Surely you may claim that I am biased on the matter, but take my word for it, and remember that I and perhaps I alone have seen all of his traits – including his flaws.
All brilliant men have a dark side to them, and Holmes is no exception. The heroin; the fighting; his inability to display or even understand affection; the downright provocative ways in which he addresses people sometimes; not to mention his lack of respect for authority. I have seen Holmes at his very worst, and still maintain that he is one of the greatest men I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Dorian Gray was a patient of mine. The very first time that I met him and we had a conversation, he immediately reminded me of Holmes. Though undeniably younger and more beautiful, he too was an eccentric. Being of the upper class, he possessed a highly extravagant air, and the proudest posture known to man. He had heard of my work with Holmes and went on to ask me questions about it: What was it like to work with him? What was the most exciting case we'd had?
Normally, I would be hesitant to speak of our work to outsiders, but something about Dorian compelled me to let him in. And after a while, I even suggested a meeting between the two.
"Well, I do not want to impose my presence on Mr. Holmes," was his immediate response, shyer and more humble than I had expected.
Despite this, I insisted on their meeting, and after Dorian left my office that day I went directly to Holmes' room.
Naturally, he was suspicious at first. I seldom spoke of my patients, so when I mentioned Dorian's name, Holmes' assumed it was in order to ask his assistance with a case.
"There is no case," I replied. "I just think you should meet with him; he seems to be a man of your taste."
"A man of my taste, is that so? Well, you should know, I suppose."
"Just try to be civil, will you? I invited him to dine with us this evening, so all you have to do is take a bath and go downstairs."
I was unusually persistent on the two men meeting, and I know it might seem strange, but my motive was simple.
Over the last few months, Holmes' had been unusually isolated. Out of work, restless; he'd been locked inside the apartment most of the time, only ever speaking a few words to myself or to the nanny. What was worse; I hadn't heard him play the violin in weeks. Frankly, I was starting to worry for his well-being.
Dorian Gray gave me a renewed sense of hope. If only I could introduce them to each other's company, Dorian could, I thought, help bring Holmes out of his shell and rekindle in him a will to live. Simply getting him to step outside the apartment would be progress, at that point.
As expected, Holmes' fell for Dorian quite immediately. With Dorian's looks and grace, he needn't even try to be charming; men and women alike would yield at once under his pale grey eyes – whether he intended them to or not.
"If I may be so bold, Mr. Gray," said Holmes once dinner had passed and we had taken out the wine. "How old are you really?"
"I am twenty-and-one, Mr. Holmes. And please, call me Dorian."
"Really, that much? Forgive me, but I find it a bit odd; you look not a day over nineteen, and yet you speak with the gathered knowledge and experience of a man much older than myself."
"I may look young," replied Dorian, "but I have lived a life longer and fuller than most men my age."
This sort of talk intrigued Holmes; I could tell by the faint glint in his eye and the way he was leaning slightly across the table, toward Dorian.
"Yes, I believe you have," he said. "I can tell by looking into your eyes. They have seen many things, and they never seize for a moment to speak of it."
The slight slur in his speech let us all know that Holmes' was slightly intoxicated. A pale red tint was blossoming at his cheeks and he emptied his glass faster and faster after every time it was refilled.
"You flatter me, Mr. Holmes," replied Dorian, looking steadily into his eyes. "You give me too much credit. Surely, I could never compete with such a mind as your own. John tells me you are the most intelligent man he has ever met, and after spending this time with you, I feel inclined to agree."
"Now, now," protested Holmes, dismissively waving his hand, "dear old Watson has always taken to praising me for even the most unfounded of traits." At this, Holmes' threw me a quick glance, and added in a slightly lower voice: "To be honest, the fellow practically idolizes me."
I said nothing. It would have been futile to try and explain myself to him; lord knows I had tried countless times. True, I did admire Holmes' more inspiring characteristics, and surely some people might have found my compliments of him rather fawning, but who could really blame me? All true male friendships, I believed, must be built upon respect and encouragement.
"Do not be too hard on him, my friend" said Dorian. "Who can blame him? I mean you are marvellous after all."
Holmes chuckled and blushed like any maiden receptive to the simplest of blandishments would do. I sighed and sunk deeper into my seat.
Sherlock Holmes
I really can't say why Watson felt so compelled to introduce me to Dorian, but it hardly matters at this point in the story. Such an inspiring young man – I am glad I was given the opportunity to know him! Most men his age seem more preoccupied with such bland trivialities; like finding wives, starting families – that sort of nonsense – but Dorian is the perfect exception! Here is a young man who understands the importance of self-indulgence and aestheticism – a young man who even acts as a muse for it. He told me he once inspired an artist to paint his best piece ever, and do not find it a bit hard to believe him.
There is something about the way he looks at you; his pale penetrating eyes seeing straight into your heart – relentless, unforgiving, and yet, deserving and just. There is something harsh about him, and still his appearance, his voice, his entire being seems so soft. I don't know how he does it.
True, he seems to know everything about how to get to me. His methods are effective, and I fall for them every time. Not that I mind. Lately it feels as if I have been waiting for something like this; something to sweep me off my feet. I don't have to think, I don't have to analyse; I simply let him lead, and I will follow him wherever he wants me to go.
Really, he couldn't have come at a more perfect time. I was so bored, so restless I had half a mind to end my life simply to end this excruciating monotony. I had reached the point in my life where I suddenly realized that there is absolutely nothing of interest to me, out there, on earth, at all.
Yes, it certainly was the perfect time for Dorian's introduction, and I suppose I should be thankful of dear old Watson for that.
xXx
"You have the complexion of an angel," I said to Dorian after Watson had retreated to his bed, on that very first evening. Sentimental nonsense of course, but Dorian has that effect on me. Also, I had, you know, drunk an entire bottle of wine on my own.
"Please," he replied, shyly shifting his gaze, "no more flattery. I am so tired of this constant focus on my appearance. It makes me weary, really, and I would believe you of all people to be above that sort of pointless fawning."
"Do forgive me," I replied. "It's just been some time since I saw any sort of beauty in this world, and I can't help but admire it thoroughly now that I found it – thinking that it might be the last I experience."
"Have you lost your zest for life, then?"
"I suppose you could say that. Without work to occupy my thoughts, all aspects of life seem so … banal to me. If only one could experience a constant heroin-high ... Alas; like all good things, it has a price, and I – as I explained – have not had any work in months. Money is wearing thin."
"It brings me sorrow to hear you say that. Though, if it is to any comfort, I have come to understand that is always the most brilliant men of this world who suffer the most. They are too aware of life's torments to be able to ignore them."
"True. Blessed are the daft," said I, resting my head in my hands.
A drunken hiccup slipped past my lips and Dorian chuckled slightly.
"Dear, dear. You are quite intoxicated, aren't you. Perhaps it is time we called it a night."
As he made a move to get up from the table, I quickly reached across it and grabbed his wrist, exclaiming: "No, please don't leave just yet. I ... I haven't even played for you."
He looked down on me with those beautiful, pale eyes, his face lit from behind by a lamp at the other side of the room.
"You want to play your violin for me?"
Without replying I lead him by the hand up the stairs to my room, closing the door carefully behind us as we entered. I bade him to sit and he made himself comfortable in the sofa.
"Won't we disturb John if we –"
"Oh, never mind that old thing! He's probably in a deep slumber by now."
So I lifted my instrument for the first time in weeks, and under the circumstances, the piece I played was quite exquisite. Dorian seemed glad enough. Once I had finished, I walked up to him and sunk to the floor at his feet, drunkenly leaning my chin upon his knees.
"That was beautiful," he said, lightly touching my hair.
"I can do better."
Dorian Gray
Out of all of my conquests, Sherlock Holmes must be one of the more fascinating ones. He is unlike any other man I have met. Unpretentious and simple, he still manages to intrigue me.
He is the kind of man who would only go where his heart tells him to go; a man of instinct and primal intuition. Proud of it though I am, it wasn't very hard to win him over. A few bats of the eyelashes, a subtle gracing of his hand – a smile here, a small laughter there and he was caught in my web. But to his credit I believe he was quite aware of what I was doing and did not try to stop it from happening; no, I think he desperately wanted this.
Yes, indeed he was much too easy to seduce, and normally that would have frustrated me. In this case it is the ease with which I won him over that fascinates me; the fact that such a sturdy and decisive man (or so he used to be, at least) would so willingly surrender to his passions, to the power of one notably younger than him.
Then again, I have had quite some time to practice ... God knows I wasn't always this fluent in my conquests. Indeed, once it was often I who let myself be taken in by stronger, more confident men ...
xXx
"I don't deserve this," he moaned into my hair as my lips gently graced his neck. "You are too precious for a wretch like me."
"It is time for you to stop talking now, Mr. Holmes," I replied, clenching his shoulder tight.
As much as he fascinated me – indeed, as much as he turned me on in this state of blatant weakness, I had tired of his sentimental babbling.
"Oh, Dorian," he cried, pressing me close. "What heavenly creature hath the Lord sent me! What fallen angel from the sky! How can I ever –"
"Mr. Holmes, please! Don't speak," I interjected, roughly pressing my palm against his mouth. "I insist on it."
As I slowly removed my hand, he was looking up at me with the dark eyes of a grown man, but the expression of a child. We both stopped for a moment. In his face I could see some of that emotion which had gone missing in myself: traces of innocence despite his age. the naivety of a teenage boy, and the blatant expression of modesty at the sight of what life was offering him tonight.
What, did I wonder in that moment, did he see when he looked upon my face? The experience of a man who had lived for several decades, but didn't look a day over nineteen? A man who practised disrespect and disgust for the very beauty of the world, even though he has been claimed to be a muse for it?
Rather than let my thoughts roam, I dove in to place a kiss upon his parted lips, hungrily slipping my tongue in between as he began to respond.
The rest is history. Clothes were torn of and legs shoved apart. By the time it was over, none of that initial fascination or excitement remained in me. As Sherlock Holmes fell into a childlike slumber at my side, I watched him with an increasing sense of revulsion rising inside me.
I got up and dressed myself quickly. Sneaking out and closing the door behind me, I didn't even throw him a last glance.
Dr. John Watson
"Dorian?"
"John ..." he sighed. "I didn't realize you were still awake."
"I wasn't. I heard a noise ... What's going on? Are you leaving?"
Though I couldn't see his face properly through the dark, the candle in my hand illuminated it somewhat. It was not the sight I had expected. He looked weary and uneasy; his hair untidy and his shirt unbuttoned.
"I have to."
"But – Holmes –?"
"Spare me the questions, will you, John? For once. I have to go, I have to get out of here."
He turned to descend the stairs.
"I don't understand," I exclaimed, slightly louder than I had intended, and he stopped in motion, turning to face me once more.
"I don't expect you to," he snarled, suddenly angry. "You are such a simple man, doctor. What do you know of a decaying sense of moral, of self-loathing and- and- what do you know of true disgust? Or of being a slave to your own youth, to your own fate? Nothing! Your biggest concern is whether or not your puppet master still likes you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Holmes is not my –"
But before I could finish the sentence, Dorian made a loud snort and rushed down the stairs, heading for the door. I was at his heels, grabbing his arm just as he reached for the handle.
"Look, abuse me all you want, I don't care," I hissed into his face. "But what about Holmes?"
He sighed once more, and for a second seem to shrink into sadness.
"Holmes is a sad old man, who would give just about anything to get his kicks and feel alive again – even his dignity. I shall never see him again."
"Dorian –"
"Good bye, John. Have a good life."
And with that, he left. This time I didn't try to stop him.