I read the message again and again. John will be home in two weeks. I stand outside on the side walk and take a deep breath. The London air is crisper, the traffic less noisy, the world is right again. John. A cab whooshes by, making the tails of my coat flutter in its wake. Once again a heaviness settles over me. Anderson. I need to check on him. Why? Because I care? Certainly not. I'm just curious to inspect the damage that I inflicted on him. These thoughts and others swirl around in my mind. I flag down a cab to take me to Anderson's flat.
When the cab stops in front of a drab building. I double check the address. It's correct. I pay the cabbie and proceed towards the grey structure. It is oppressive, just one step above government housing and not much else. I trudge up the stairs to Anderson's flat. The smell of curry assails my nostrils, while a pair of children run down the halls, oblivious to their poverty. I envy them. Even as a child I never knew such peace and tranquility. I look away, knocking on the door. No answer. I knock again. After a few repetitions of this action, I sigh. I then look around me and pull out my picks.
A few metallic clicks latter and I am in Anderson's flat. I expect the inside to be as dismal as the outside and I am surprised when it is not. Though the décor is sparse, the place is clean. I smirk, looking at the freshly polished kitchen floors.
"My ex took everything except my piano," Anderson says behind me.
I whirl around. "Anderson." He is standing there in his pants, his chest bare, a bandage around his ribcage.
"Sherlock, what are you doing here and how did you get in?" He asks, then rubs his eyes in slow motion, wrought with fatigue.
I wince, unsure of my motives. "I picked the lock. This place has an appalling lack of security."
Anderson's lips turn up into a tentative smile. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"
I don't want to answer him. It will give him control. "So, you play piano, any good?"
Without a word Anderson walks over and sits on the bench. His eyes take on a faraway look. He then looks down and begins to play, the Adagio from Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. Each note breaks through my emotional barriers. His playing is wondrous. My eyes fill with tears. I hear Beethoven, but I see John, I see Mary, I see Redbeard, I see the Woman, I see everything I have loved and or lost. I want to tell him to stop, but I am transfixed by the beauty and pain of the music. I am mute, rendered powerless, unable to disarm him with sarcasm or cruelty. I want to shout that he is the cruel one for making me feel, but I cannot. I have allowed him to get under my skin, the fly in the genius of my ointment.
Sensing my discomfort, he stops playing. I want to beg him to continue, but I don't. I just stand there. I am beaten. Without a word Anderson has reduced me to ashes. He has burned me. My gaze never wavers from his face, his hands, and his back, his scarred and beaten back.
He frowns. "Well, that's it. I suppose."
"You didn't finish," I say.
He gives me a sad lopsided smile. "Does it matter…Sherlock?"
I am furious. What kind of game is he playing? "Yes, it matters, or don't you know the rest of the piece?"
He looks away. He doesn't answer me. I find his silence unnerving. Then he pulls the piano cover over the keys. Its clamping sound reminds me of a coffin lid closing. His head is still bowed. "Sherlock, why are you here?"
I storm over to where he is sitting, and I pull a tin of salve from my pocket. "I came to give you this," I say, holding it out to him.
He takes it and smiles. "Thank you, Sherlock, but how am I supposed to put it on?"
I take a deep breath when I look down at his bruised white skin. He is not a corpse. Why did I beat him so? I struggle to maintain control. "I will do it." I answer.
He looks up at me. "Are you sure?"
I nod. "Take off the bandage around your ribs."
He does so. The bandage unravels and falls to the ground. I approach him, untwist the lid, and begin to massage the ointment into his lacerated skin. He winces but does not cry out when my fingers touch his wounds, wounds that I created. When I am through, I back away. "Anderson…I'm sorry about last night."
Anderson twists around on the bench so that he is facing me. His elbows rest on the piano lid, his legs spread slightly in order to maintain his balance. My mouth begins to water. I want to snake my hand up his pants until he thickens in my grasp. I kneel before him as if to confess my sins. "You would do anything for me wouldn't you?" I ask, then I reach for him.
"Yes." He answers, shivering when my fingers arrive at their destination.
"Would you lie for me?" I ask, my voice low, full of lust.
"Yes, Sherlock, I already have."
"When?"
"When we searched your flat for drugs. I found two balloons. I didn't tell anyone. I just stuffed them into my pocket."
I look at him with new respect. "Do you still have them?"
"No, I destroyed them."
I sigh. "Too bad, next time think it through. We could have had mind-blowing sex after getting high."
Anderson doesn't answer when my fingers resume their crawling. His head falls back against the piano. I am getting off just watching him. "I'm going to jerk you off quick." I say.
He nods, pulsing into my palm. Then he huffs a few time, arches his hips, and shoots into my hand, whimpering when I mouth the front of his pants. I pull them down. I have to taste. In between licks, I ask him one more question. "Anderson, would you kill for me?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
I stop and look up at him, my lips are swollen and moist. I lick the corners, then pull him close. His eyes are wide full of pride and guilt. "You, it's you. You're the toe slasher." I whisper.
He laughs. "Very good you are a proper genius."
His answer sends a jolt of warmth to my groin. I pick him up. "Where's the bedroom?" I ask in a raspy voice. He gestures with his head and I carry him. I lay him on the bed, then I strip off my trousers and pants. I lay down on the bed. We are facing each other. I grind my groin into his, resuming my interrogation. "I know you didn't kill them, they all died of natural causes. Tell me how you arrived at the scene before anyone else."
Anderson groans and pushes against me. "I hacked into dispatch and arrived there first, then I cut their toes off."
I keep him on his side by holding his arms in a firm grasp. I don't want him to further injure his back. "Fuck, Anderson this turns me on. Why did you do it, to impress me?"
The friction between us is unbearable and I am surprised he can answer. "I did it…so you…wouldn't be…oh god, bored!" We then both shoot our loads within a few seconds of each other.
We are both breathing hard. I am the first to speak. "Anderson, I am impressed. I really am, you are so clever. I underestimated you."
He basks in my compliment. I frown. It's time to let him down. "Anderson, John is coming back."
He looks away and nods. "I'm happy for you, Sherlock."
I roll away from him. "Is that all you can say?"
He pulls his knees up to his chest. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you will miss me. I don't know, something." My voice trails off.
He looks at me his eyes clearing of lust. "I will miss you, Sherlock."
I pull on my pants and trousers. I am angry and I don't know why. "Good-bye, Anderson," I say, then leave, wondering why hours later I still can't dispel the look in his eyes when I left, or the last lingering notes of the Adagio from Beethoven's Emperor Concerto.
