Chapter Three
Siger's planted the olive trees. Fiend. As if destroying my collection of Anthophilia wasn't enough, the man dares to refuse me this.
Only a man such as him could deny a Priest his bible, an addict his self destruction, or his own son his sanctuary.
Nasal congestion. Weeping eyes. Presumed diagnosis confirmed: hay fever. Damnable allergies. Damnable Olea Cuspidata. Damnable Father.
Open eyes. Adolescent olive trees to left, cluster of Aloe Vera to right. State of biome suggests the year 1995.
1995. Cocaine. Psychoanalysis. Sherrinford.
When I asked for a distraction, I did not ask for this, I asked for-
"You're naked."
There you are.
Confirm John's observation. As naked as Michelangelo's David. As naked as Mark Renton and Diane Coulston in Danny Boyle's 1996 Transpotting-
(Why do I know that? Delete?Yes/ NoYesAre you Sure you wish to delete this information?Can hardly be classified as 'information'. Trivia perhaps. Yes- Oh. Rainy Tuesday. John. His thumb tickling my instep. No. Perpetually No.)
-As naked as a cadaver, though I seem to be lying on a predominantly steel grey throw with mustard yellow as opposed to a steel trolley and have no desire to be covered in a sheet. Greenhouse's constant temperature of 17 degrees Celsius is more than adequate.
"So I am, John." Smirk at his slight embarrassment. He clears his throat. Clenches and unclenches right hand repeatedly. Wait for it...Ah, tongue laps at bottom lip once then disappears.
The man is as I see him best. Worn navy jeans, red flannel shirt with last button missing, dreadful brown leather loafers that always cause him trouble when we have to chase suspects and Royal Arms Medical Corps mug in left hand. Reads 'In Arduis Fidelis' – 'Faithful in Adversity'. Aren't you just John. Aren't you just.
He kneels beside me now, resting the mug on the terracotta tile by his knee. His thumb and index finger draw the viscous sap from the aloe, lingering it under his nose to take in its scent- earthy, slightly bitter, I can almost smell it myself.
Leans forward, strokes said thumb and index finger over my knuckles, and I recoil – it stings.
Ah of course. Running down the stairs, lose footing – fall down last four, maybe five steps. Get up, ignore shooting pain in legs. Continue running, Mycroft at my heels, calling my name, thrust open front door, gravel of the drive stabbing under my bare feet and cold air aching, piercing my lungs.
Arms wrap around my waist and I kick, Mycroft dropping me after my foot hits his thigh. Run again, run into the shadows of the orchard and press my body up against the rough brick of the house to hide myself from my brother – who now walks with a slight limp.
He leaves my line of vision, and I scream, I fall to my knees and I scream. Fist collides with the wall but I laugh – Aha! – and I do it again, and again and again...
Pulled away from the wall and onto my feet, and I flail," Sherlock, no!", his hands on my shoulders forcing me to face him and I punch him in the chest and if it weren't for his amount of padding – his vest, his shirt, his waistcoat, his blazer – I might actually be able to hurt the bas- the...
"My Sherlock?"
John. My John. I say as much, as breathless as if I was still sobbing against my wretched brother's chest. Don't think about that now.
He lies next to me now, on his side. His thumb still running over my sore, gashed knuckles. "It's nice, this." He gestures to the greenhouse, then leans forward to kiss my wounds, a small peck. How could such small a touch make me want to so desperately re-invent myself?
"It was my Father's and mine. Ours."
John picks up on it immediately, of course he does. "Was? Is he dead?"
I smile, though from John's reaction I expect it looks somewhat forlorn, "In real-time? Yes. In this universe, no." I begin to explain, pausing only when John rests his head upon my shoulder, "He is-was," I correct myself, "An amateur botanist."
He chuckles, "With a greenhouse like this? Amateur is not the word."
"True enough. A hobby of his then. The winter I turned eleven, my parents returned from a two month holiday touring the Mediterranean and, along with the promise of a new sibling, my father's newly found obsession with the foliage of said region-"
I stop to analyze the quizzical expression now before me, "New sibling?" He asks, raising his head.
Ignore. Clear throat and continue. "It was a project of sorts, creating this," I say with a sigh, nodding in the direction of a crowd of Capparis Spinosa – a caper bush-, heavy in a bloom of pure white petals and great needle-like violet stamens reaching outwards from its core. "Father and I spent hours in here, nurturing the plants, taking samples for experiments, Mycroft was so terribly jealous. So many times he would try and sneak in here, but only Father and I had a key." I finish with a chuckle, nuzzling into the skin of John's neck. It's wonderfully warm, slightly damp from the humid climate.
His voice comes from above me. "And then?" I still. He notices, kissing my forehead, and lifting my head up to level with his. "Another time..." A kiss on my right eyelid, "Another time." He repeats, before a kiss on my left, blessing me.
He is the Van Der Waals to my Macromolecular structure, holding me together, moulding me.
"Some years after this project begun- a few days after I got this-" I raise my hand for John to acknowledge, "I returned here, to find the olive trees. He'd planted them out of spite." I press my arm to my nose and sneeze, right on cue, "In my adolescence I had the most horrendous allergies – I was barely allowed out of the house in Summer, what with my Mother being somewhat of a hypochondriac- and my immune system responded in such a way that I could no longer return here. Pollen from Olive Trees is the worst trigger in the Mediterranean you see."
John is a very observant man. Not in the analytical sense like I. Not insensitive. If I could see myself, see my rigid posture, my inability to maintain eye contact, the tense muscles of my jaw and neck – the masseter in particular, see John, I do listen – and a certain rhythm i'm tapping subconsciously onto the tile with my right hand-one that I thought I had long since deleted-I would say Father issues. Sibling rivalry. Avoidant attachment. But this man, he sees emotion, he sees humanity reside within me and of course he wants to help! And he wonders why I continually refuse to see medical aid...
It's a 'chicken and egg' conundrum with John's overwhelming concern and his career. Dare not ask, as there is only one solution that I am willing to accept. The only experiment where I long for biased results.
He frowns at my fingers, trying to remember where he has heard it before. It was quite a popular song in 1995, and I can see John dancing to it in one of those 'indie' clubs, his pint spilling over the floor as he chants.
I can see myself, bow in hand, arm thrashing until the friction made my fingers bleed in the early hours of the morning in the stable because I didn't want my Father or Mycroft to hear, not until it was perfected so I truly deliver this blow to them both.
It was a demanding piece, not only because of my lack of interest in the song itself, but due to the immense variety of notes use. Nonetheless, rage is a powerful emotion, and married with vengeance I eventually found myself ready.
I could not wait for their humiliation –my brothers at his failed attempt to fit in with the sexually affluent at University, his false adoration for 'British Rock' which seemed so popular at the time just so he could be accepted and my Father for having to turn to his newly 'favourite' son (or least despised in this case, he could only choose between the two of us now, after all) for answers, not having a care for music at all.
It took less than five seconds for my sibling to recognise the song as I stood on the Persian rug in the drawing room that evening –on what would have been Sherrie's seventh birthday - my lip bit in what my mother assumed was concentration. No, if only she wasn't swimming in a haze of fluoxetine and the Château La Conseillanteserved at Dinner, too busy tapping the tips of her French – Manicured nails against her palm in applause, she would've clearly see the quirk in the corner of my mouth. A smirk.
Mycroft threw his book onto the floor, the spine splitting much like his composure when I casually lowered the violin from the crook of my neck, his fingers digging into the arm of the chair. Father positively glowers and I count gloriously, five...four...three...two...one – there it is! The glass of the snifter collapses in on it's self -another simile for composure-and the brandy spills onto the carpet and the fire spits. Poor Mother stops clapping immediately, her watery eyes shifting between the three of us, desperately trying to find the source of tension in the room.
"Father, Brother," I begin, gesturing to each of them, keeping my tone mockingly polite, "Know that since that day eight months ago I have despised the very essence of you, that the very idea of sharing oxygen with you has been a tribulation and that I share your cursed genes is of more grief to me that any guilt or deprivation." Mother is crying at this point, sobbing wretchedly into her hands, with Mycroft at her side, stroking her shoulder awkwardly, mouth downturned in revulsion. Father has yet to move, another brilliant show of marital affection. I strive on, determined. "In three weeks time I am leaving for University. It would please me greatly if my eyes were never to fall upon you again."
Now for my curtain call. I bow, swiftly to my Brother and Father and then bow again to my Mother, slower this time, portraying my respect, my adoration – her trembling lips in a weak smile as I raise my head shows she understands. That is all I need.
Harsh deep breath through the nose, shoulders back, my head most certainly raised. "I wish Neurodegeneration on you both, you pair of insufferable, narcissistic cunts."
"Distract me." I gasp, as though i'm out of breath, suffering from 'the Bends'.
He notices my poise, of course he does, and any man could, but he acts. He takes my hand immediately, noticing my distress, our warm fingers intertwining like the threads of wool on his wretched cable knit jumper. His lips touch mine and immediately thoughts of that time begin to bleed away.
Remnants of tea spills out of the tipped over mug, soaking into the porous terracotta but I ignore it. Father wouldn't be pleased. Small victories, I tell myself.
There is the sudden feel of softness under my back, and my eyes can see skyward – towards the canopy of Lemon, Olive and Italian Cypress- and beyond that, the tessellating hexagonal structure of the dome of the biome. Then that sight disappears as John's thumbs press against the corners of my eyes, beckoning me to close them. True enough, it does have a somewhat calming appeal.
Though not as calming as John taking my mouth again. The only comparison I can make is sucking at the flesh of a persica, when it's been left to ripe at room temperature. When you feel the pangs of undernourishment. Oh, and you are also a Frugivore – thereby making it the only food you wish to eat. Smooth, tender, warm and wet.
How is it that the word 'wet' has become suddenly arousing?
Do away with 'calming'. John Watson cupping your face and parting your lips with his tongue is not calming. It's slow, teasing, the thick, rigid organ slipping into me, my solo of harsh breaths forming a duet when John pulls away in pause, his nose nuzzling against mine.
Most of my possessions are in trunks now, ready for my departure, only my skull and violin remain to console me. Since that night of my performance I have changed the locks three times, though he still comes reeling through the door, brandishing his pick gun – just to prove he can – and the threat of his malice in the physical form of a roller buckle tan leather belt that held nightmares for me as a child.
I pull away; voice wavered, "Not working! John..."
"Not enough?" He pants above me, his lips are so swollen and quirking up into a smile as my hands reach for his hips.
Reading my mind, he rolls me onto my side and rocks languidly against me, taking my mouth again, our tongues a metaphor for our desires and an intense heat coming from his skin, diffusing into mine and making me restless.
Lips press against my neck now, causing unexplainable spasms in my muscles, until I've managed to curl my entire body around him, with my head oh his shoulder, hand fisted into his shirt, as though I were a newborn in my mothers arms – and although that perhaps doesn't suit this situation, its comforting all the same when John rakes his hand through my hair, holding my head up to his, wide eyes the colour of pentahydrate Copper (II) Sulphate...
I slam down the boot of the Jaguar and take a last look at what had been a prison of sorts for the last seven years. The apple orchard, the reed pond where I could observe the behaviour of the coots and mallards from my window, the stable where I would go to escape the daily trials of family life and lastly the greenhouse, with it's infamous Olive saplings.
It holds nothing for me now. I turn to my Mother, her Chanel mascara now doing more harm than good to her appearance – dappled under her lower eyelids and beginning to trail with her tears down her cheek. I loathe to admit it's become a familiar sight. She leans up to kiss me on the forehead and hands me a rather heavy cardboard box, leaving her a free hand to press against her mouth to hold back a sob. I frown at the unrecognisable box I now hold in my hands, but I put it on the passenger seat just the same, curiosity once again getting the better of me.
I like to imagine Mycroft looking out of his bedroom window as I drive away, gravel spitting from under the wheels as I accelerate away from the house. I have barely passed through the wrought iron gates - the sight of Mother still standing on the drive a mere blimp in my front mirror before I pull into the side of the road and open the box that sits on the passenger seat.
The source of the great weight comes from my Mother's bust of Goethe – a fellow polymath - but I feel a greater weight comes from the other items in the box.
His Blaeu's map of the British Isles. His magnifying glass with the mother of pearl handle. But most importantly, his worn copy of 'The Dupin Mysteries', which would come to mean more to me than I could yet realise.
"Do it John." I pant, whether from desire or anxiety I know not, "You must."
His is now untwining my legs with his, hand under my right knee to cock my leg, thigh nearly pressing against my side. I welcome the slight twinge of cramp as his eyes feasts upon me – my desire for him no longer hidden by the tangle of our limbs.
"Just look at you." He whispers against my temple, pressing a soft kiss there "Look how bloody beautiful you are. Can you hold your leg like that for me? I want to see every inch of you..."
Arrive at University. Place belongings in room. Then take the precious Holmes Jaguar XJ (X300) to dealer and sell. Use money to buy cocaine. A new life begins.
My hands grabs again at the material of his shirt, my head burrowing into the crook of his neck to muffle a groan at the first touch of his warm palm cupping me between my legs, my hips rutting against him like a mammalia in heat.
He is forever the SSRI that lasts, not one that simply dissolves on the tongue. Would offer to the NHS if I weren't so possessive.
There are many things I learn to appreciate in this dream of John and I.
First, that I am willing to endure not only physical pain – the severe cramp now burning in the anterior muscles of my thigh – but also mild humiliation in the form of said anterior muscles allowing me to thrust frantically into John's hand, now firmly wrapped around the base of me, because I know that it's a worthy sacrifice if it pleases him.
Secondly, that all matters of 'being better than this' are thrown out of the metaphorical window. A metaphorical window that just so happens to be on the top floor of a sky scraper as far as I am concerned, so that all niggling issues I have are well and truly eradicated. Do I despise myself for allowing myself to be reduced to basic human desires, or do I despise myself for enjoying them? Furthermore, do I despise myself enough to stop? Certainly not. Under no circumstances will I push John away from me.
Last of all, that this blush that I know is blooming across my chest and up my neck, this intense ache I feel in the pit of my stomach and an intense need to cry out that can only be held back by biting down on John's shoulder, its biology yes, but more importantly its chemistry.
Mycroft opens my bedroom door to leave Baker Street (and hopefully this planet altogether,) hand still lingering on the brass handle and sight still lingering on the sight of John's tartan blanket pooled at the bottom of my bed. "On day he'll get to you." He warns, lips puckered patronisingly, before leaving in a flourish.
I pick up the blanket and throw it out of the room in rage. He already has, Mycroft. He already has.
It's chemistry in the way that John looks at me with those eyes, the way he touches me with those hands. The way I am an acid and he an alkali, combining to make something more neutral – no, more stable.
"Oh God, you're close aren't you?"
I take a shuddering breath, mumbling incoherently as his thumb trails over my tip, "Yes John..."
His hand leaves me to tip my face towards him, "Are you going to come for me?"
I feel my face contort at that, "Afraid..." I gasp, afraid of being this close to someone during a very vulnerable period.
Afraid because I keep seeing flashes of a mahogany bedstead and a writhing body that isn't John's. It's got curves instead of sharp lines and its hair is long and fanned out across the pillow instead of just sticking up at angles. I know I haven't long.
"I know you're nearly there, and i'm going to be right there with you." He says, taking me again and carresssing me from my base to my tip, looking into my eyes the entire time. "It's all fine. Let go, Sherlock."
My head falls back as I willingly give myself to him, my body, my want, my restraint. "John..." I say through clenched teeth, wrapping my right arm around his neck to pull him closer as I feel this movement between us reach its climax. "John!"
The first thing Sherlock feels is the mahogany headboard beneath his fingers, which are stiff from gripping it for so long. There is a trail of sweat that he can feel running from behind his ear and down his nape and a sudden weight in his limbs as though the bone has been replaced with cadmium.
There is the distinct sound of heavy breathing. Of two people's heavy breathing. Sherlock recognises the pattern perfectly to that of someone who has just copulated. That's when it all comes back to him.
Looking down, he finds one Molly Hooper lying between his thighs and he can smell her and feel the heel of her right foot still pressing into her lower back where she must tried to beckon him down on top of her. Her eyes are closed, though one of her hands is creeping up his thigh.
"Off." Sherlock orders, though it comes out slightly less stern than he'd hoped – obviously the oxytocin and prolactin. He pulls up his underwear, ignoring the shocked wide eyes that are now staring up at him before falling onto his side – the whole bed is my side – of the bed. "Leave. Now."
"What?" She mumbles breathlessly, turning her head towards him and closing her legs now that she's beginning to come down from her high.
Sherlock turns onto his side, away from Molly and clamps his eyes shut to try and remove the overpowering amount of stimuli, "Leave. Now." He repeats, mumbling a 'Please' under his breath.
He hears her slowly get up from the bed and tip-toe around the room to collect her clothes before rapidly getting dressed. He may have his eyes closed but he can tell she's abandoned her tights and also from her sudden hiss of pain has caught the skin of her hip in the zip of her skirt from trying to leave in a hurry.
"Right, I guess...I guess I'll let you know then?" Her voice sounds shaken and for once Sherlock doesn't feel like asking whether it's from her orgasm or whether its shock from being kicked out of his bed.
Sherlock nods although he doubts she will see it from behind him. The bedroom door closes. He punches the headboard as promised, cradling his fist as the pain sparks up his arm with a cry. No doubt Molly heard.
He can't stand to be in this bed – in this room – any longer and so sprints to John's room, a little shaky on his legs and curls into the foetal position on John's tartan blanket. He takes his mind to a place of Olive trees, spoiled terracotta tiles and the sound of a breathless 'Sherlock' against his Doctors lips.
A time that never happened at all.
I'm offering a 750 word prompt piece for the first person to guess the song. The clues?
- The artist is a British Rock Band
- It was a single in 1995
- The subject of the song is narcissism
- It is known for the large number of different chords used
- Both the album the song was featured in and some of the lyrics are included in this chapter somewhere
Just a little reward to dedicated readers and/or music enthusiasts - both of which I respect greatly! Good luck!