Disclaimer: There are some sexual themes/implications in this chapter. Read with caution. XP
"The country."
Jane looked up at Holmes, sprawled out on the couch in her usual manner. "What?"
Sherlock plucked a few strings on his violin listlessly. "We could go to the country."
Jane sat upright, propping her back against the couch's nearest armrest. Her feet, no longer bandaged, crossed at the ankles, legs stretching out lazily before her. "Now, why would you want to go to the country?"
Holmes shrugged and mumbled, "You could probably use some fresh air. And with Watson gone, I'm not privy to staying cooped up in here all day, knowing the room down the hallway is no longer occupied."
Jane stretched out her arm, palm open towards Sherlock. Holmes relinquished the violin to her and watched as she cradled the instrument in her arms, her fingers tracing the contours of the wood. Shivers traveled in rapid succession down Holmes's spine, an odd feeling settling down in his lower abdomen. He coughed, cleared his throat, and stood up abruptly, turning his body away from Jane's line of vision, should she look up. He swallowed thickly, edging behind his chair until only his upper body could be seen.
"I've never been to the country," Jane mused aloud, plucking the G string. "I didn't know you had a house in the country."
"It's my brother's house, actually."
"You have a brother?" Jane's eyebrow rose, her head cocked to the left.
"Everyone has siblings of some sort, no?" Sherlock replied.
"Except Watson, I suppose," Jane muttered, picking up the bow on the coffee table. She pulled it gently across the strings of the violin, drawing out a melancholy chord. She kept it lingering in the air – a painful lingering, wavering, waiting for release…an action that reflected Sherlock's current state. "What would we do in the country?" Jane asked.
"Whatever you want," Holmes heard himself reply. He stiffened, his eyes widening in that way that made him look as though he were staring at some place between places. "Within reason, of course."
"Whatever I want?" Jane's eyebrow rose even higher. "And what about you?"
"Yes, well, I'll find something to do. I always do."
"Says the detective who hasn't picked up a case in months." Jane's gaze was hard, blunt as a dull knife. "Holmes, you are going to lapse into insanity if you don't pick up a case soon."
"There is nothing of interest," Holmes stated curtly. "Nothing at all. Not since Blackwood was hanged."
"I see." Jane swung her legs over the edge of the couch and set the violin down, approaching Sherlock slowly. He refused to meet her gaze. "Nothing is worthy enough to solve, merely because nothing so far as turned out to be a greater challenge than Lord Blackwood."
Nothing except you, Holmes nearly voiced.
"And what if a case greater than that of Lord Blackwood's never comes along?" Jane asked, suddenly by Sherlock's side. "What if nothing is ever good enough? What then, Holmes? What will you do for the rest of your life? Fight in the ring for money? Lord forbid you need to ask Watson for money!"
Holmes's head snapped up, though his gaze drifted over Jane's head. "I'm thirsty. Would you like some bourbon? Whiskey?"
Holmes sidled away from Jane, her presence almost overpowering. Hands shaking, Sherlock pulled out a bottle of bourbon from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a large glass, nearly filling the cup to the top. Jane, still standing by the chair, said, "I'll have some whiskey. Half a glass, on the rocks."
Holmes happily obliged, tossing a few ice cubes into a clean glass before pouring the whiskey into it. He brought the glass to Jane, making an effort to put himself between something whenever he faced Jane. She took the glass from him and took a long draw, her eyes looking at Sherlock curiously as he sat down on the couch and crossed his legs awkwardly. He gulped at his bourbon greedily, again ignoring her gaze. Jane frowned and walked towards the window, glancing down at the street. The light, casting Jane in a silhouette, caused Sherlock to finally look at Jane.
Her hair, alight with fire, made her seem as though she were some heavenly being. The edges of her body – the lines and the contours – shimmered, illuminated by the midmorning sun. Holmes couldn't help but smirk, as he always did, upon seeing her unevenly rolled up pant legs and shirt sleeves. The smile faded as he noticed the glow upon her skin…and how he could see vaguely through her white dress shirt. He stared for a moment too long, lingering on her figure, before tearing his gaze away, feeling as though he were tarnishing Jane's…innocence. He tugged at his collar, suddenly finding the bourbon too scalding.
"Your brother lets you use his country home?" Jane asked, sipping at the remaining whiskey in her glass.
"He's my brother."
"Does he stay there all the time?"
"No. In fact, when I tell him I want to use his country home, he is sure to make sure that everyone vacates the premises." Holmes shook his head. "I don't see why."
Jane glanced over her shoulder at Holmes and smirked, her eyes twinkling. "I don't see why, either," she said. "I mean, surely you're such a wonderful guest to be around."
"It depends on the company," Holmes retorted, swallowing the last of his bourbon. "It's only in Lestrade's company that I feel obliged to disregard all gentlemanly duties, especially when I am a guest."
"A guest for Lestrade?" Jane chuckled. "You mean to say that when he has put you behind bars you're a guest, right? Even I would disregard manners and etiquette if put into such a position." Jane turned back to the window. "But, really, Holmes, I don't see why most people abhor your company."
"I wouldn't say abhor. They…dislike my company. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the best person for company anyway."
"Well, I didn't have much of a choice, did I?" Jane held her faceted glass up to the light, letting the crystal refract the rays into a multitude of colors, bathing herself with flecks of opalescent color.
Holmes frowned. "You could have said no."
"I know."
Brow creased, Holmes stared hard at Jane, trying to read her body language. One hand in her pocket, the other rotating the glass in the sunlight, posture somewhat slouched, she looked no different than how she normally looked. Upon closer inspection, however, Holmes sensed a feeling of puzzlement from Jane. She seemed perplexed, perhaps in response to Sherlock's statement. It would explain her reply.
Jane slowly let her hand drop to her side, the empty whiskey glass hanging from a few of her fingers, her thumb sliding into her pocket. She cast another glance out the window, pensive, before turning away and striding over to Sherlock. She set the glass aside and slid onto the couch, her legs propping up on Holmes's knees as she leaned back against the other armrest. Holmes let his left hand rest on one of her legs, enjoying the feel of her skin against his, no matter how much he was arguing with himself inside, wondering why he was indulging in such pleasures, pleasures he had never experienced before.
The two intellectuals sat in silence, looking at each other, waiting for the other to speak and break the silence. Jane leaned forward and plucked the bourbon glass from Sherlock's grasp, setting it down next to hers.
"I'd love to go to the country," she whispered. "But I still have one question."
"Yes?"
"Has Watson ever gone to the country with you?"
"No."
A look of surprise registered in Jane's eyes; she nodded her head and leaned back onto the armrest, her legs shifting on Holmes's lap, brushing a little too close. Holmes swallowed thickly, exhaling slowly as another pleasurable shiver darted down his spine, settling deep in his lower abdomen again. Jane, thank God, didn't seem to notice.
"Then perhaps I shouldn't go," she stated, drawing Holmes out of his physical and emotional agony.
"And why not?"
"I wouldn't want to go someplace where Watson hasn't been to with you," Jane answered. "If Watson found out…wouldn't that make him jealous?"
"Jealous?" Holmes couldn't even fathom the idea of Watson being jealous. "There is nothing to be jealous about," he spluttered. "Watson has moved in with Mary, anyway, and I'm sure he prefers her company over mine at the moment."
"Perhaps," Jane murmured, looking at Holmes through half-lidded eyes. "Well, then, I suppose we should be packing for the country."
Holmes struggled to restrain his euphoria. "Yes, indeed."
Neither of them moved.
Jane let her eyes flutter close. After a few moments, she drifted off into sleep, her breathing slower, shallower. Holmes sat still, his gaze resting on Jane's peaceful face. He found his hand trailing over her leg, her skin passing beneath his fingertips. He shivered again, that same physical torture in his abdomen starting up. His fingers stopped at the bottom of Jane's rolled up pants, just above her knee. Holmes inhaled deeply and shifted out from under Jane's legs, standing up to his feet warily. His emotional turmoil was evident in his pants, and he hurried from the room, hoping that Jane wouldn't wake to find him in such a state.
Perhaps taking Jane out to the country isn't such a good idea, Sherlock thought, slipping into the bathroom. He locked the door behind himself and stared down at his predicament. The two of you would be all alone out there.
The thought was felt in his lower abdomen for the umpteenth time. Holmes bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder at the door, wondering if Jane was up.
No need to worry, Holmes thought to himself. Control.
He managed to relieve himself of his physical agony.
After cleaning up, Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom and went over to issue a telegram to his brother. Brief, it stated that he and a guest were going to the country home in two days time, giving his brother a day and half to clear everyone off the grounds. His brother wasn't privy to letting his housemaids and landlord be harassed by his younger brother.
Jane was still asleep on the couch. Holmes paused beside her and brushed a few stray hairs out of her face. She stirred and mumbled, "When are we leaving?"
"Two days from now."
"Okay…"
Jane lapsed into silence again, her breathing falling back to a regular, sleepy rhythm. Sherlock hefted Jane into his arms and carried her to her room, where he placed her onto her unused bed. She shifted, muttering something unintelligible, and curled up into the fetal position.
Holmes left her to sleep. In his room, Jane's door shut behind him, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play a quiet, beautiful melody, letting himself fall into the lull of the music.