The match was a good one. Holmes considered his opponent with a careful glance, taking in the strengths and weaknesses of the other man in an instance, cataloging them for consideration.
Dolhan was a fishmonger, used to rolling heavy carts up and down the docks and his muscles stood out in thick ropes along his arms. His legs were powerful too, heavy and sturdy.
Holmes knew it would take a consistent application of careful strikes to tire the man out and open him to more powerful blows.
It would be a long battle, he realized, but one of enormous financial potential, and at the moment, that was a primary factor.
He took a minute to center himself, and stepped out onto the dirt floor of the warehouse, keeping an eye on Dolhan.
Three rounds into it, Holmes knew he might possibly have to dip into the stores of medical supplies Watson had left behind. Dolhan was quicker than his bulk implied and had landed a few blows that were already beginning to ache.
Still, he was confident of a win. The rain had made the floor muddy, and Dolhan wasn't as sure-footed against the slippery muck. Holmes began to speed up his attack when a sound echoed through the warehouse, pulling everyone's attention from the match. Holmes glanced up and jerked back as part of a ceiling support beam gave another ominous creak and began to fall, bringing a wet deluge and heavy chunks of plaster and wood down on everyone below. Within seconds the boxing ring was in ruins, and the screams of the wounded carried over the torrent of water and splashes.
Within a minute at most, things were difficult to remember. Holmes knew he'd been struck a blow along the side of his head; a blow from a twisting section of beam that was strong enough to nearly knock him out. He remembered staggering, and clinging to the rail before making his way through the screaming throng to a wall.
After that, matters were even hazier. Holmes knew someone was speaking to him and tugging him up the loading ramp, urging him along when the last thing he wanted to do was to move.
More rain, shockingly cold, was soaking him down to the skin, and crowds in the street yelling and jostling as they tried to rescue the trapped and maimed. Holmes knew his nose was bleeding, and his vision blurred in and out. He also knew whoever it was helping him wasn't Watson.
For a long while his focus wavered, and the capacity to stay conscious gradually faded even as Holmes fought to remain awake.
*** *** ***
He awoke gradually, keeping his eyes shut as he let sounds filter through for identification.
Susurration of the rain outside in a steady, soft hum.
The occasional gust of wind rattling against a closed window.
The tick of . . . a clock, he realized, slow and ponderous.
There was no such clock in his rooms, Holmes knew. So he was somewhere other than home. The coverlets over him were thick, cocooning him as he lay on his side.
Arm.
Around his waist, small; not masculine, then. A woman.
The scent of old leather . . . . and paper.
He knew then, the who, and the where of his situation and oddly, there was no shock, only a rising fascination stirring through him now. The slow surge of dreamy interest grew, partially intellectual and under that, definitely a physical reflex. Holmes understood he was injured, but his body refused to take anything above his waist into consideration, and hormones combined with lust aroused him further.
Carefully he slid his broad hand along the arm, expecting to encounter lace, and not finding any; the skin was soft, warm and smooth, layered over lean muscle. Holmes shifted, trying to keep from waking the sleeper at his back, while at the same time, allowing his senses free reign.
Bare flesh--
That was as far as he got before a hot pang of desire surged through him, blatant and demanding. Holmes bit back a groan, fighting it down muzzily, aware that his perceptions were affected by more than mere sleepiness.
Still, the soft heat of bare breasts against his own naked spine made him clench his teeth against his own carnal urges. This was madness; he'd barely touched the woman in the last four months, and the flirtation they'd maintained was discreet and silent for the most part. Now he was in a bed with her, somewhere within the depths of the store by the faint scent of damp, and . . . and . . .
The arm along his waist was moving, the hand slowly sliding up his flank and across his chest, warm palm splaying against his ribs. A definite touch, firm and deliberate, without hesitation. Holmes debated on pretending to settle back into sleep, just to observe what Miss St. James would do.
Her sigh, soft and hot against his ear made self-control impossible; Holmes drew in a breath as her fingers brushed through the fur of his chest and tickled one hard nipple, sending a pleasurable shock through him. Holmes tensed, and faintly under it all he despaired at ever mastering his lust. It was the one aspect of himself that no amount of discipline could ever quite conquer, and although he could keep it at bay for remarkable periods of time, it was never quite completely under his control.
A failing . . . and he let the thought go when the hand glided to the middle of his chest, and a whisper drifted into his ear. "M-Mister Holmes. You are awake?"
Bluffing would not be possible, he realized. Not at this point, with his pulse accelerating and his breathing slightly ragged. "I am, Miss Saint James. Although I am also . . . confused."
"Little wonder. Y-you were hit quite hard and required a small d-dose of laudanum, sir," came the low voice. As she spoke, Holmes shivered as a rush of pleasure tingled through his ear, spiraling down his spine.
"Ohhh," he managed, his voice sliding into a lower register. Her words not only explained his altered perceptions, but also his inability to concentrate on more . . . cerebral matters. "So I am . . . drugged."
"Not excessively," the whisper reassured him. "The Apothecary Guide s-suggested half a teaspoon for head injuries, but I only g-gave you a quarter. Are you in p-pain?" As she spoke, her hand moved once more along his stomach, her touch a damnably sweet tease along his skin.
"I am not feeling any pain," he replied in a low, slow voice. "Most assuredly not."
"I am glad to hear it."
A pause. Holmes lay torn between wanting to ask further questions, and waiting for her hand to shift again, the anticipation making him . . . throb.
Her hand moved, fingers brushing his navel now, brushing it lightly. Holmes struggled not to move; he lay still, luxuriating in the caress, dimly admitting to himself it had been a long, long time since he'd last been touched in such a way.
Not just erotically, but . . . tenderly. With care and concern as well as sensuality.
"You have . . . . gentle hands," Holmes heard himself mumble.
Miss St. James shifted closer and he felt her smile pressed against his shoulder. "Th-thank you."
"Not that I wish you to stop . . ." he went on slowly, "but precisely . . . how . . . did we arrive at our current situation?"
"You were struck by a f-falling beam at the Apex. I assisted you here and g-gave you aid," came her quite murmur. "Since there is n-no fireplace here, the most prudent method of keeping warm is proximity."
Holmes nodded; it was indeed logical that a shop full of paper would prudently avoid open flames, and further, that warmth generated by body heat would be an effective alternative.
"Commendable. I thank you for your . . . care," he murmured gently. Her fingers lightly toyed with the velvety fur trailing in a silky stripe under his navel, and Holmes found it increasingly difficult to focus on conversation.
Miss St. James said nothing, leaving him caught between embarrassment and arousal, not sure exactly how to proceed . . . on any level. He didn't want her to stop touching him, or in fact, cuddling him, which was more precisely what she was doing.
"Mr. Holmes, I r-realize I have you at a slight disadvantage here," she murmured. "M-my intention is not to seduce you, but to o-offer you the opportunity to indulge in me, s-should that appeal to you."
"How . . . graciously generous," Holmes replied, swallowing hard. This wasn't what he expected at all, and yet the lusciously naughty potential of it made him stiffen further. "Very . . . . hospitable."
"Should you p-prefer simply to sleep, I will understand, of course."
"So you are saying," Holmes slowly strove for clarity, "that although we are in horizontal propinquity— and without garments, I perceive—I am still in command of a choice?"
"Absolutely," Miss St. James whispered.
Holmes digested this, and even as he did so, he slid his hand over that of Miss St. James in a slow caress. "How . . . intriguing."
"Please consider it a u-unique offer, possible only because of our fortuitous c-circumstances this evening," Miss St. James assured him. "Had the accident n-not given me opportunity to assist you, our current situation w-would most likely never have come about."
"To what benefit?" Holmes persisted quietly, his words polite but curious. "Given our past history of understated and miniscule flirtations, this . . . considerable advancement requires explanation, Miss St. James."
She said nothing for a moment, and made to pull her hand back, but Holmes had it trapped under his and held it against his stomach, not wanting it gone. Miss St. James relaxed, and spoke again, each breath caressing his ear. "It may n-not have escaped your notice that I am w-without suitors, Mr. Holmes. Th-this is because my uncle prefers me not to wed. The sh-shop is in my name, not his, and sh-should I marry, I would have the right to turn him out."
"You would never do anything so . . . unkind," Holmes retorted, shifting a little. The feel of her nude form pressing against his back was delicious now.
"I w-would not, no. But uncle finds it easier to k-keep gentlemen from me, and now I have few options for my future. S-since I am to be a spinster, I wish to experience c-coitus at least *once* in my lifetime. You are unattached, and a g-gentleman in every sense of the word, Mr. Holmes. F-further, I suspect you are experienced in m-matters relating to the boudoir and . . ."
Holmes listened to this all with surprise and a faint flush of embarrassment. He turned his head to look at Miss St. James from the corner of his eye. "And?" came his prompt.
"And you are k-kind. You have never once made jest of my sp-speech or person. That may seem a small matter to you, b-but it means a great deal to me."
This startled and humbled Holmes somewhat; he'd never thought of himself as kind, but in fairness, he'd never thought of Miss St. James as handicapped either. Her criteria made him thoughtful, and then one point rose up and he rolled over onto his back.
Miss St. James shifted to lie against his side, and this new position brought far more of her against him; a situation fraught with sensual temptation. Her hand was still on his stomach, and Holmes kept it trapped there with his own, lest it wander.
"So you are . . . an innocent." He stared at the ceiling.
"Physically, yes."
"But not---?"
"Mr. Holmes, I work in a bookshop; I'm w-well aware of what literature my uncle b-buys and sells in the back room," Miss St. James whispered, her voice smiling. "I d-daresay I have read more erotica than any other w-woman in London."
"Really?" Holmes was startled, but not entirely surprised. It made sense that an intelligence this keen would take advantage of the surroundings, and reap the benefits of the same. "Very . . . enterprising of you."
"Knowledge is important," Miss St. James agreed. "However, I do not wish you to feel c-coerced into this in any w-way."
He considered the matter, and a myriad of responses came to mind, but foremost in his estimation was the honor of being chosen. To be trusted with such a deed was definitely a matter of respect and pride; Holmes found himself indeed touched to be offered this sensual endeavor.
And there was the worry that if he turned her down--even gently, parting as friends--that Miss St. James might chose someone else, and *that* was not acceptable. Holmes suppressed an inner growl at the thought of any other man being less than gentle with Miss St. James in what should be an act of mutual passion.
That was not the way to experience an event so important, and in that thought the matter was decided. Carefully Holmes lifted her hand, sliding it up from under the coverlet to his lips, where he kissed it lightly.
"I amat your service," he told her in a husky voice, "With a few provisos of course."
He felt her tremble against him; a nice sensation. "Th-thank you. And those would b-be?"
"First of all, in a setting this private, I would prefer to call you by your first name."
"I would like that very m-much," came her reply. "And would like to use yours as w-well."
"Thank you. And secondly, loathe though I am to bring the issue up, there is the matter of conception, which is always a possibility in matters of intimate congress."
"I am . . . p-prepared," Miss St. James replied forthrightly, surprising him once more. "I have read Burton's Perfumed Garden thoroughly and have taken the precautions practiced therein, vis-à-vis half a pulped lemon as a cervical cap."
Holmes blinked, and turned to look at her; his expression caught between admiration and exasperation. "You never fail to astound me, Miss St. James."
She blinked uncertainly, biting her lip for a moment, and Holmes continued, his tone gentler. "I meant that in the most commendable way, of course; not only does it show foresight and prudence, but a degree of practicality that I find as appealing as the rest of you."
Holmes kissed her hand again to emphasize his point, and although he couldn't see her clearly, he sensed Miss St. James was blushing.
"Thank you," she murmured. "I know it w-was presumptuous of me, b-but it seemed wise."
Holmes nodded, and moved to slide his arm around her shoulders, settling her against him more firmly. The lazy kiss of skin to skin under the coverlet created a blend of comfort and carnality that he enjoyed.
Carefully, he brushed his lips along her temple, intrigued by her hair, which smelt of rosewater. "And on the matter of presumption, I return the question to you, Genevieve. Are you sure about this?"
In answer, she shifted and pressed her mouth to his bristly chin, nipping it lightly. The caress was deliberate; a clear and playful answer to his serious question, and Holmes smiled.
"Very well," he sighed. "We shall begin with kissing."