Cattle Herds
by ElenaC
It was still early - before dawn - when I awoke, feeling cramped and uncommonly warm. Before my heavy and pleasantly aching body could command me to move and stretch, however, I remembered the events of the previous evening and the possible cause for my position, so I suppressed the impulse and remained contentedly still, save for a cautious turning of my head towards my companion, who was sharing my bed.
Sherlock Holmes lay deep in slumber, his lean, muscular chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of sleep, his delicate eyelids and dark lashes moving as he looked at whatever images his dreaming mind was evoking. For once, I noticed with no little pride, he was enjoying the complete relaxation of true sleep, not merely the poor facsimile he normally achieved when, exhausted in the wake of several consecutive days of tireless work, his body finally demanded its due, or, worse, when he employed artificial means of stupor. I could not properly discern his colour in the dim light filtering into my bedchamber from the street, but I have no doubt that he was looking healthier than he had in months, his pallor replaced by the soft flush granted him by our recent exertions.
I still had not grown used to the almost free access I now had to my beloved friend's body, nor to the fact that, at least during moments of idleness, he seemed not only to welcome my advances, but also to desire me almost as much as I him. We were as yet in the process of discovering each other, and in a way, ourselves. I was learning how to give Holmes pleasure even as he, often for the first time, experienced what he was capable of feeling. He was as diligent and thorough a student in this as he had been in everything else. For myself, I am proud to say that, no matter how often he cared to repeat a certain activity, I was ever able to keep up with him.
Slowly and carefully, I shifted position until I could comfortable enjoy this opportunity to look my fill at Holmes' face without fear of being caught and subjected to a sarcastic remark. I was in that stage in a fresh relationship where one discovers something new about one's beloved daily, sometimes hourly, no matter how often one's eye may have charted the same territory during more innocent times. At this occasion, I admired for the first time the way the shadows pooled beneath his angular cheekbones, the way he looked so young and somehow noble in repose, and the way his mussed hair fell over his high forehead, and how his early morning shadow leant a disrespectful air to his normally prim and proper character.
With something of mixed astonishment and smugness, I felt my body beginning to respond to the sight, for, considering the exertions of the previous night, I had not expected to be ready for more this soon. I decided, however, to let the impulse die without acting upon it. What with Holmes' irregular sleeping habits, I should be a poor friend and worse doctor indeed if I deprived him of what rest he could get merely for my own gratification.
Instead, I continued to look at him, marvelling at the fact that I, a quite normal man with average intelligence, should be the one to have captured the great Sherlock Holmes' heart.
One of his hands lay upon the pillow next to his face, long, slender fingers slightly curled in relaxation. As I regarded it, musing how delicate it looked and how strong its grip could be, admiring the clean, straight lines, the hand twitched slightly, briefly, as if about to curl into a fist, and looking into my friend's face that was turned towards me, I found a frown marring the smoothness of his brow.
I dearly wanted to reach out and touch him there in reassurance, but, familiar with the peculiar lightness of his sleep, I refrained. Only the night before, I had roused him merely by looking at him, or at least he claimed to have felt the weight of my glance upon himself. While I was of course aware of the acuity of his senses, I was not quite prepared to credit this assertion. Still, having his face touched would certainly wake him, and moreover, Sherlock Holmes is capable of being perfectly grumpy and unreasonable when disturbed for no good reason. I was not about to risk his displeasure lightly.
This resolution, however, did not last very long, for soon after having made it, I watched Holmes' frown evolve into a full-blown scowl; the rhythm of his breathing accelerated and his fingers twitched in earnest. Obviously, his dream had ceased to be a pleasant one, and I was no longer capable of doing nothing.
Gently, I manoeuvred my hand until it hovered over his brow, and very gently, I stroked my thumb along the bridge of his nose and over the furious furrow between his eyebrows.
He did not react immediately except for a short pause in his breathing. A curious sound emerged from his opening lips - a cross between a sigh and a hum -, and then his eyes shot open even as his hand sprang to life to capture mine.
His grip was like steel, and I have no doubt that he would have attacked me, but fortunately, his quick perception instantly informed him that it was only I. He fell back with a groan, releasing me, and laid his arm across his eyes.
Before I could apologize for waking him, he muttered, "Thank you, Watson."
His voice sounded so normal and firm that I knew he was making a special effort to make it appear so. Briefly, I cast for words that would convince him to confide in me what was troubling his dreams so, but then I merely said, "Come here," holding out my arms in invitation.
He continued to look at me in silence for a long moment. Just when I should have felt embarrassment at the blatant impulse that had prompted my action, I watched something I had never seen before: Holmes seemed to consciously remove the barrier that guarded his expression from the deeper workings of his feelings - which he certainly had -, and allowed his soul to exist upon his countenance.
I saw something that I can only call lingering terror in his face, and I felt humbled that he should allow me to glimpse it. Then he closed his eyes and moved close to me. I gladly enfolded his spare frame that I had come to know so intimately with my arms, a sensation of heat building at the back of my eyes when he surrendered himself to my embrace, seeming to relax every muscle that came into contact with my body. At that moment, I knew myself immensely privileged by this trust from one who cultivated no friends - no friends, no acquaintances - save myself.
Slowly, one of his hands snaked around me, holding on to me with increasing urgency and making me realize that, even though I had freed him from the snares of his sleeping mind, the crisis had not yet passed. I was glad to lend my support, little enough of it though there was. Neither of us said a word. I doubted he would ever give up his habitual reticence sufficiently for verbalizing his troubles unreservedly, and neither did I press him. I knew him well enough by now to know that he would confide in me what he chose, when he chose, and no amount of prodding would convince him otherwise.
So I merely held him, hoping that the solidity and warmth of my body would provide him with what he needed.
Just when I was convinced that he had gone back to sleep and was resigning myself to the fact that I should soon lose feeling in my left arm, he shifted slightly and sighed. "I wish I had known you years earlier, Watson," he said softly.
I found that I was holding my breath, convinced that he was leading up to telling me about what I had come to think was his troubled youth. But when this auspicious beginning was followed by a heavy silence, I felt moved to say staunchly, "I should have been your friend no matter when I met you, Holmes. Even as a toddler in the sandpit."
This surprised a chuckle out of him. "Good old Watson" He lay quiet for a minute before adding, "I have no doubt my life would have been much different." Then, once more, he fell silent without elaborating.
I decided to help him by embarking upon a little confiding of my own. "I grew up with dogs," I said reminiscently. "Baxter the wolfhound was my truest companion when I was eight."
"Strange name for a dog," Holmes commented.
"He was named after one of the heroes in the first book I owned. Captain Francis Baxter, pirate."
"Why not Francis?"
"My brother's dog was named Francis. Couldn't have two Francises in the family."
"True enough."
Another silence followed.
"I have frequently observed that some imprints left upon a man's soul during his youth tend to remain visible throughout his life, while others fade completely," he finally began in what I had come to term his philosophical tone. "A child's mind is like a virgin land, soft marsh in some places, rocky and hard-packed earth in others. Experience treads it like a herd of cattle, or flies across it like a bird. Too many cattle will leave devastation." By now, his voice was almost toneless. "And in response, the mind is constantly changing. Marshes dry up, refusing to let traces linger. Sometimes, the mind will turn into a desert to protect itself from all those trampling hooves."
I moved my free hand soothingly across his back in slow circles, saying nothing. He was trying to tell me something, but could not bring himself to use clearer words than these rather poetic images. And still, or maybe because of it, I felt tears of sympathy gather in the corners of my eyes.
"But there is balance in everything," he went on tonelessly. "The water does not disappear. It drains underground, forming currents and subterranean rivers of frightening depth and speed. A mind that is turned inward like this will eventually drown in a vortex formed by itself."
I had to do something, so I shifted and turned and angled my head so I could kiss his brow.
He smiled at me, a slow, sad smile. "Fortunately, sometimes it rains upon the mind desert, halting the process. Rain, warm, gentle, moistening rain will call the mind back to the surface, and the land will cease to dry up. Of course, this once again makes the mind vulnerable to the cattle herds of experience."
"But there are fences and herding dogs," I said helplessly. "Couldn't they keep the cattle away from the marshes?"
"Of course. But that, to keep using this rather unscientific analogy, is a power only available to an adult mind. There are no fences in a child's mind, and the only dogs that roam it are wild."
To my surprise, I saw a glistening trail of moisture upon his cheek. My heart gave a painful lurch. I had no idea how I should go about healing a hurt of this magnitude. Feeling clumsy and inadequate, I tightened my about upon his slim form. "What can I do?" I whispered.
The whipcord muscles in his arms flexed as he returned my embrace. "Let me sleep here," he said, almost inaudibly. "In your arms."
"Of course."
"Thank you."
He was asleep within minutes. I am glad to say that no more dreams disturbed his rest that night. If this is due in any small way to my presence, then that is my pleasure, my privilege, and my reward.
