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The Beautiful Art of the Mortal Form
Several times I have alluded to or outright recorded times when my good friend Sherlock Holmes dabbled with female fashion. I have indicated in all such incidences that the cause was work, and used these transformations to stress the many talents related to disguise that my companion possessed.
These incidences are all true, and my stressing of the reasons for them are also true. Holmes would have transformed himself into the spitting image of Lucifer, the Virgin Mary, or Jesus Himself if he thought such would help him find the data necessary to put rest to a case.
But he would also pursue these transformations when a case wasn’t in the offing.
It didn’t happen often when I first moved in. Or, rather, I didn’t catch him at it frequently. I think most of the time Holmes shifted from Sherlock to Sherry, he was cautious to hide the indications. How could he not be? England has a long history of men playing at being women, especially on the stage and in little holiday dramas, but that is almost certainly part of the reason that the stage has such a risque reputation. There is little that actors hold sacred, including the divide into male and female, public sphere and domestic sphere, and that willingness to discard rules that have well served the majority of our populace ruffles many feathers.
It is a testament to my belief in Holmes that I started to wonder, as I grew closer and closer to him, if the divisions that we have created within society actually do more harm than good. If they are actually more impositions than natural tendencies.
Though I suppose I have my own unnatural tendencies to contend with, and thus may not be the most unbiased of doctors to study these possibilities. Still, I look to research being done in places like Berlin and I wonder.
I wonder if perhaps the world could have been kinder to the greatest person I ever loved, and if that kindness would have made him more or less than he already was.
But I am doing as Holmes always accused me, and telling the tale all out of order. Since I am writing this only for myself, and perhaps for some distant relation in the future who wishes to either share it with a kinder wor l d or make a bit of coin off a decades-old scandal, I feel I can allow myself to wander more than I usually would.
When I first started sharing an apartment with Holmes, I saw him very infrequently in female dress. When I did, he always had a tale to tell me of a case that he was working. I have made it apparent how good he was at changing his appearance when he wished, and his dabbles into being a woman were no different.
He was always a striking man, but never handsome; too thin, his eyes too keen; too much the predator to put anyone at their ease, though he only hunted those who deserved it.
As a woman… as a woman he was also predatory, but it was a different kind of predatory. He was more successful at presenting as a woman the more layers of clothes he wore, and when he went out dressed as a proper lady, I doubt anyone could have been the wiser. I never quite figured out what his trick was. Something he did with his face, perhaps, changing the contours of it with layers of cosmetics; something about the way he held himself. His height should have made his playing a woman laughable, but he managed not to make it so through a combination of low shoes and changes in posture; a demure bow of the head that he would never have countenanced when in his own skin.
Except that sometimes, when he donned a woman’s clothes, they were as much his as his finest waistcoat or most luxuriant smoking jacket.
The longer I stayed with him and the more I recorded of his cases, the more he began to appear before me in women’s garb without explanation. It was never terribly frequently, before Reichenbach; perhaps once or twice a month. I would ask him for an explanation, and he would not give one; I would try to slide the incident into one of our cases, and could not for the life of me figure out which one it belonged to.
“Is it really so hard to conceive, Doctor?” Holmes finally asked me. “You, who must have some understanding of inversion and disordered desires; is it really so impossible for you to believe that I might sometimes dress as this simply because I wish to? Because there are times when these clothes help to fight the black moods, and the idleness and churning of thought that your vaunted rest can bring?”
I had broken out into a cold sweat as soon as he mentioned inversion, of course. I told myself that I had no need to. His statement had been completely innocuous. As a medical and military man, it was a reasonable assumption that I would have some familiarity with inversion. There was no need to assume he had read more than I wanted him to.
But it was Sherlock Holmes I was talking to, and I, of all people, knew he tended to see much more than most people desired. Sometimes more than he himself desired.
Holmes sighed, clearly reading me like an open book once more. “I am not judging you, Watson. You are hardly the first and will certainly not be the last invert I meet.”
“I am not—I do like women, Holmes. Certainly you read me well enough to know that when I admire a woman’s feminine charms, I am not lying.” My heart beat too quickly in my chest as I waited for his response. I think a part of me worried that I was lying; that I was managing to lie to myself as well as to the rest of the world.
Holmes’ light chuckle and familiar fond smile, though made strange by the way he had shaded his lips a deep red, dispelled my fears. “I know you are quite attracted to the female figure, Watson. But you are also attracted to the male figure. Several of our clients are men that you would have walked out with when on campaign, I think.”
I stood abruptly—too abruptly, for my leg protested, the fear that had taken hold of me not completely covering the irritation of the muscles from a cold and rainy day that had prevented visitors. “You cannot just say such thing as that.”
“No, I cannot, can I? Even you, who purports to trust me implicitly, fears what I will do with this knowledge I have wrested from you against your will.” Holmes sighed, putting a cigarette in a beautiful silver holder that he only ever used when dressed like this to his lips. He blew a perfect smoke ring, and then stood. “However do men who only favor men manage, do you think? It must be terrible, to choose between being forever alone or living with such fear. But that will not help you rest easy, will it?”
Holmes sauntered over to where I sat, hips moving in a most feminine way. He bent down, his eyes staring directly into mine.
I stared back at him, forcing myself to breathe. To swallow. To find words. “I trust you, Holmes. But secrets such as the one you’re talking about so lightly have destroyed far more powerful men than I.”
“I do think your lack of power could be seen as a benefit, in this situation. No one truly gains anything by blackmailing you.” Holmes drew another long drag from his pipe. “But that will not suffice to rid you of the fear. So I will give you two gifts: I swear to you, John Watson, from the bottom of my heart and the depths of my soul, that I will tell no one of what I deduced. Your secret is safe with me.”
I knew how much Holmes’ word meant to him. I immediately breathed a bit easier.
His lips quirked up into a smile. “You do trust me, I see. Enough to not even ask the second gift, but I give it anyway. Your way of striking back at me, should you think you need to. I do not always dress like this for a case, John Watson. Sometimes I do it just because it is a way to make this cursed body more bearable for a bit.”
Leaning in, Holmes pressed the first kiss between us to my left cheek. I felt every point of contact between his red-tinted lips and my skin, and am certain I could retrace where his lips lay to this day.
When he pulled back, there was some dizzying combination of sorrow and mirth in his fierce gray eyes. “A third gift, even more unasked for: an answer to your question. I do not dislike how you feel about me. I would be all right with you pursuing however much you wish to pursue, on whatever days you wish to pursue it.” His mouth twitched into a brief smile. “You may even be the only person in the world who could coerce me into changing clothes for you, if you wished.”
He took another drag from his cigarette before returning to his seat, the silence thick between us.
When he went to his bedroom that night, he left the door open—an invitation I did not take then, but that I would take in the future, though much stood between that first conversation and the gathering of my courage.
***
I withstood temptation for three months.
Though to call it temptation perhaps invites the imagination to ascribe too much effort to Holmes during our courtship. Holmes never talked again of our deviant natures. He was his usual blazing, energetic self. Only two differences existed in our flat that I could trace to that conversation: first, that he left his bedroom door open quite frequently.
And second, that he dressed more frequently in feminine clothes.
It still wasn’t frequent. I think he knew too much the risks he was running—have no doubt that he could have recited the relevant penal codes from memory, while I had only a vague and fearful understanding of them and no desire to read them more fully.
Eventually my love of Holmes won out over my fear. It was three nights after we had successfully completed a case, and Holmes’ mood was dipping. I’m not sure he spoke three words to me over all of dinner, and I was pleasantly surprised that he had even deigned to sit at table with me and eat.
It didn’t surprise me when, after dinner, he changed into a woman’s simple house dress. It was a pretty thing, the base color blue but with gray highlights that complimented his eyes quite nicely. He sat smoking out of his little silver cigarette holder for perhaps three hours, and then abruptly turned in for the evening, barely muttering, “Good night, Watson,” as he did so.
But he left the door to his room open.
He kept the invitation open.
Did he just want someone to help him fight the battle with his own mind that he was losing? Or did he want me? And if he did… if I were to find him in a dress still, would that change what my body desired?
What my heart desired?
I already knew the answer to that, and it was a resounding negation. Nothing Holmes did—short of becoming a monstrous killer, in other words, someone not himself—would ever convince my heart to change how much it yearned for him.
And I was tired of pretending I didn’t, especially when I knew I was fooling neither of us.
Holmes wasn’t in his dress anymore. He had shifted to a nightgown, and was resting atop the bedclothes, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes studying nonexistent spots on the ceiling.
Those sharp eyes shifted immediately to me, and I saw the pupils widen perceptibly.
Excitement? Fear? Something of both, perhaps?
“My dear Watson,” he murmured. “I was becoming quite certain you would never come.”
“I will come anywhere you wish me to, Holmes.” I swallowed, closing the door behind me. It would be paltry little protection, but it still made me feel better. “And I… well. Certainly you know how I feel.”
“I think that I do. But do you know how you feel?” He pointed at me, then slowly pulled that finger back to his lips.
I drew in a breath, and exhaled pure truth. “I love you. I don’t always understand you—perhaps I never will be able to—but I love you. I would like—if you were willing—that is, I think—”
My face burned, and I found myself studying the ground. How very ridiculous of me. I was not a virgin, though I was not nearly so accomplished in the romantic arts as some of my army compatriots; but given the army, that still left me a great deal of room for experimentation and exploration. I would never have considered myself any kind of wilting violet, but as I waited, hoping Holmes would fill in the silence, I began to doubt my own strength of will. Still Holmes stayed silent, until finally I blurted out, “I should like to sleep with you, Holmes, if that is what you have been offering.”
I managed to raise my eyes just in time to catch the end of a bright, eager smile on his face. As soon as he had schooled the expression away, he inclined his head. “As you like, Watson.”
I moved forward, half in a daze. I settled myself on the end of his bed, and I reached out to tentatively touch his cheek. “You’re certain?”
“Very. If I weren’t, I would not have left the opportunity open. Though I must admit…” Holmes swallowed. “Today might be a more… difficult day.”
Taking his hand in mine, I raised it to my lips and began gently kissing each knuckle. “Why?”
Holmes’ breath caught in his throat. “Because I—I am—today—good heavens, Watson, please do stop that if we’re going to have a talk.”
I stopped, feeling rather smug about the way I had quickened his breathing and disrupted his usual sweet cadence.
Holmes gathered his composure and began again. “You know that I have little use for my physical form; that I have called it an appendix and will do so again. My thoughts are what matter. My body is a cage to house those thoughts, and it is a cage that does not always… behave.” He gazed at me, eyes sharp, clearly looking for something.
I hadn’t the faintest idea what, so I said what I truly thought. “I think your body is very striking and beautiful. And since I desire to have your thoughts—your soul—alongside us for a great deal longer, I am going to keep asking you to take proper care of your body.”
“My soul.” Holmes sighed, but he didn’t pull his hand from mine; indeed, he tightened his fingers around mine. “If I have such a thing, perhaps it is as confused as my body.”
“I do not understand, Holmes.” I tried to say the words lightly, as though this were a case and I was merely failing to follow his chain of deductions.
“I know. Very few people do.” Holmes’ lips pulled back from his teeth, a grimace that looked to be more pain than frustration. “You have heard of people who believe they are the wrong soul for the body that they inhabit?”
I gave a slow nod. “That is how some people explain their inversion, yes.”
Holmes nodded. “There are some who insist that they have a woman’s soul in a man’s body, or a man’s soul in a woman’s body. I have never quite understood that.”
I smiled, stroking my thumb along his too-prominent knuckles, looking at the bruises that were still fading from our last case. “Then perhaps you have an angel’s soul, rebelling at any physical form.”
“Sometimes it feels that way, Watson.” He responded with more gravity than I expected, and I found myself frowning in concentration as I listened to his slow, careful words. “I like those times second best: when my body is just a strange hunk of meat that follows me about, whether I will it or no. The easiest, of course, are the times when my body feels right. When whatever a soul or a mind is expects a male body, and there it is, and everything is right as rain. But then there are days like today. When I feel…”
He stopped, studying me. Waiting for permission, perhaps; fearing rejection, I was certain, and I was equally determined not to give it. “What do you feel on days like today?” I asked as gently as I could.
“If I share this with you, you must promise it will not leave this room. That even if you feel it your duty as a doctor, you will not share it with anyone else. I am not mad, Watson. I have had times when I fear a softening of my mind, a dulling of my senses, but it has never been associated with this. This has just… always been a part of who I am.”
“I cannot promise that I will not do something if I think you are in danger.” I tightened my hold on his fingers, trying to let him know that I would do nothing, ever, to endanger him.
“I am only in danger if anyone else finds out about this, just as with you and your appreciation for the male of the species. Only that threatens me, not anything I do in my own privacy. Do you understand? I pray you do, for you will be the third person I have ever confided in, Watson.” Holmes swallowed, and I thought I caught a faint tremor of his throat. “So please. Promise me.”
I hesitated only a moment more before saying, “I promise. I will not let any secrets pass these walls.”
He smiled, a quick, toothless expression of gratitude, and then said, “Sometimes there is a part of me that is certain I should be a woman. I do not know if it is soul or body, but it is very irksome, and I have found that the easiest way to get through those times is to simply find a way to give into the certainty. To dress myself in women’s clothes for a day or two, when it is safe to do so. And then as quickly as it came, the certainty will pass, and I am left again as either a man or a mind, which is a much safer thing to be.”
I considered all that I had heard Holmes say about the fairer sex, and wondered if some of his frustration had to do with… this. With Holmes lashing out at something that he could not understand about himself.
Herself?
A cold sweat broke out on my brow, and I found myself studying his familiar scarred hand as I held it tight.
Could I do as I had promised? Surely this was different from the type of inversion that I suffered from. Except… mine was not a suffering, was it? I had never regretted being as I am, though it did always have to be accompanied by a tinge of fear.
Did Holmes regret being who he was?
I could not imagine that, not with how confident and certain he always was.
No, Holmes didn’t regret being himself, only the way others sometimes reacted to that self.
I shifted my eyes from his hand to his face—to those familiar gray eyes, that seemed to read my soul. His shoulders were already sagging, the great man—person?—clearly waiting once more for rejection. To be shown that he had been wrong in his confidence.
It was that, I think, which settled me. He had tried so hard to explain, and it hurt him that he could not.
Not that he was the way he was, but that he could not explain it, and that it was not safe. That it was something about him which was simply inimical to the world, and thus, he was already assuming, to me.
I could not have him think that even for a moment.
I leaned down, and pressed my lips to his.
It was very satisfying watching the way his eyes widened; feeling him first tense and then relax under me, his free hand burying itself in my hair.
When I pulled away, he breathed out my name as though it were a prayer. “Watson.”
“I love you.” That was the simplest truth I could fall back on. “Whoever you are, whatever you are, I love you.”
“And if I am a devil, come to tempt you into sin?” His lips twitched into a smile.
“Then I suppose I am lost, and that Hell is a better place for me than Heaven.” I settled on the sliver of bed next to his shoulder. “But I have seen Hell, and I have seen what life you have to offer me, and they are not the same at all, my good man.”
Holmes’ mouth twitched.
“...girl?” I tried.
The twitch became a grimace.
“...dear Sherlock?” I offered, uncertain.
His expression cleared somewhat. “Yes, I think that will do nicely. Sherlock. Or perhaps even Sherry, if you like. It was a childhood nickname, but I think it would fit a woman.”
Sherlock could have been a woman’s name, in all honesty, but I decided now was not the time to point that out. Surely there is a family reason for choosing the names Sherlock and Mycroft, and if it made things easier for Holmes, all the better.
“You would never lead me to Hell, Sherry,” I tried, and the name fit fairly well in my mouth, especially as I watched the way Holmes’ expression relaxed. “And I should like to try to find Heaven together with you.”
Holmes blinked, and then laughed, a bright, gay, unexpected sound. “Oh dear, Watson. If you are going to speak to me like that, I do not know if I should tell you when one of these moods is upon me.”
My face flushed. “I am trying to be romantic, which I would attempt in this situation were you bearded and gray.”
“Mmm, I should have expected that, given the way you write.” Holmes reached up, fingers tracing my face. “I just want you to be yourself, John. That is who I have come to trust, and that is who I offer myself to.”
My Christian name from Sherry’s lips was somehow both a warm embrace and a chill jolt of electricity straight down my spine.
Sherry traced my cheek with fingers that trembled just slightly. “I fear I’ve no experience with this, but I am quite willing to try with you. At any time, in any way you desire.”
“Though I’ve some experience with the fairer sex, this will be my first time with…” I hesitated, watching the way Sherry’s expression clouded. How horrible must it be for Holmes to be reminded of his body on these days, when it clearly irked him immensely? “Well. We will figure it out, no?”
“I’ve no doubt this is an experiment we can manage quite nicely.” Sherry leaned up, claiming my mouth with hers.
It took much more work than I expected. For all that Sherry was a willing and eager partner, she was also very easily overwhelmed by touch—especially touch involving the genitals. I wasn’t sure which irked her more: the fact that I couldn’t so much as trail my fingers over her penis without her having to snatch my hand away, or the fact that even stimulation of the neck and clavicles, which she seemed to enjoy, became overwhelming after only a few touches.
Finally Sherry simply rose from the bed, ordered me to lie down and undress completely—which necessitated me standing up again—and proceeded to fondle me with those long and expressive fingers until I came, her head upon my chest the whole time, her eyes focused on mine and not on what she was doing.
I longed to return the favor, or find some other way to share my joy, but Sherry shook her head regretfully. “I do not think I can right now, John. Another time, perhaps. But… if you would do me the honor of staying…?”
It was a very tight fit, the two of us in Holmes’ bed, but at that point not even the Archangel Michael could have prevented me from fulfilling any wish of Holmes’.
I wish that had been a state that could last, but the world of our time was not kind to people like us, and nothing I did could change that for either of us.
***
I did love Mary.
I would not have gone with her if I didn’t also love Holmes.
If I didn’t know that he needed space—needed a clean break from me, to stop certain rumors that were circulating.
Not everyone repeated the rumors, of course. And some of those who did—like Lestrade—repeated them only to me, in confidence, in an attempt to protect us.
“People like to talk,” Lestrade said, clearly uncomfortable. “But with the law getting tighter and tighter about what men do, well… it’s good to be cautious. Holmes and I might not always get along, but he’s fighting on the side of justice, I do believe, and it wouldn’t be any justice, someone sending him to jail for… well… for something that must be untrue. I do not think a man like him would do well behind bars.”
That Lestrade and I heartily agreed on, though of course the truth of the rest would have scandalized the poor man out of what imagination he had.
For surely Holmes didn’t sometimes wear women’s clothes when not trying to tail a particularly troublesome suspect.
Surely Holmes and I were not indecently involved with each other.
But if someone were to accuse us, and the wrong people believed them…
It was safer for me to go with Mary.
Holmes understood immediately, and gave me his blessing.
He stood as my best man at the wedding, giving a glorious and witty speech about how he was very glad the position had evolved through the years so that he was not obliged to participate in kidnapping sweet Mary.
And then he vanished from my life for months at a time.
He did it carefully, gradually, so that at first I didn’t even notice what was happening. There had been times at Baker Street when I wouldn’t see him for long stretches, after all—times when he traveled, or I did, or he was off working the part of a case where I would be a hindrance rather than a help.
But these stretches began to wend one into another, until four months had gone by without my seeing Holmes. I did not know that was the cause of my morose mood, but it must have been a very black one indeed, for after dinner one night, when we were alone, Mary asked me very gently, “Have you and Mr. Holmes had a fight?”
I blinked at her, utterly at a loss. “No? Whatever gave you that impression?”
“Because you haven’t talked of him lately, or seen him, and you are…” Mary hesitated. “I think that you are missing him,” she finally settled on.
I realized immediately that it was true. The sense of purposelessness that I had been feeling; the lethargy; the desire not to rise from bed in the morning; could it all be a yearning for my dear Holmes and the life that we’d had together?
A life, I realized with the clarity of hindsight, that he was slowly pushing me away from?
“I am a fool,” I said dully, burying my head in my hands.
“You are a fallible man in love with a very clever and strange one.” Mary came to pat my shoulder. “Will knowing the diagnosis help you to find a cure?”
“Always.” I placed my hand over Mary’s. “I do not deserve you.”
“I would say that all of us who have found solace on the margins deserve the support of others in a similar situation.” Mary kissed the top of my head. “You know I would not hesitate to welcome your dear friend into our home?”
“I know.” Just as I knew he would not come. He belonged in Baker Street. He had ingrained himself into the walls—in some cases quite literally—and he would be a difficult one to pry free. Not to mention the talk.
No, I could not bring Holmes into our household; not without risking someone targeting him with laws cruel and unjust.
But that did not mean I would lose him without a fight. I vowed to myself that I would find a day in the near future to corner him in Baker Street, so that we might discuss our relationship moving forward.
As it happened, he was the one who cornered me, bringing word that he was hot on the trail of Moriarty and his men.
He invited me to the Continent with him. He responded to my desire to be with him by asking me to accompany him on the most dangerous journey of his life.
I did so without hesitation.
And found myself alone in Reichenbach two weeks later, utterly bereft, a widower without even the right to wear mourning.
***
When Holmes returned miraculously from the dead, I was determined that I would stay with him through whatever came next.
Moving back into Baker Street—leaving the memories of dear Mary as far behind as I could—was an easy decision.
Allowing myself back into Holmes’ bedroom was a harder one.
He didn’t dress in his women’s garb anymore. Mycroft hadn’t touched a single thing in the apartment, and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t the type of woman to ask questions if the answer was most likely harmless and also something she didn’t want to know. He could have fallen into old habits.
Instead there were days when he smoked more than he ever had before, which was a very impressive feat, and huddled in his armchair, talking even less than he had before the Fall.
He left his bedroom door open, but I did not immediately take advantage of the offer, and by the time I thought I was ready to, the invitation had been rescinded, closed wood protecting Holmes’ rest.
What of it he managed, at least. I could hear his nightmares three nights out of five, and I wished I knew how to make them go away.
I wished I knew what they were about.
Holmes’ mind was as sharp as ever, and he threw himself into his casework with a vigor that would have been shocking in a twenty year old man, let alone one of our age.
I was happy.
I was also terrified that something was happening to him. Something he was not sharing with me.
I resolved to broach the topic, since my partner was being decidedly mum on the subject. I just needed to choose my time. I did not have to wait long; twenty-four hours after I had made up my mind I must talk with Holmes, he entered one of his black moods, curling up in his chair with his knees to his chest and an obscene amount of tobacco readily at hand.
“Holmes,” I began, and received only a flick of his eyes rather than his full attention. “I was wondering… it seems you are not… that you have not…” Why was it so hard to name what I wished to talk about? Finally I carefully said, “I have not seen you as Sherry in quite some time.”
Holmes’ lips twitched up into a soft, sad smile. “Sherry was a girl. A childhood nickname for a childish part of myself. Spending three years without her has made that clear.”
I cursed myself for a fool. Of course Holmes would not have had the means or opportunity to dress as he wished while both hunting and being hunted by Moriarty’s men.
“If that is your wish.” I spoke slowly, balancing the relief I felt at Holmes not having to worry about that particular legal threat with a growing sense of urgent wariness. I was beginning to suspect that my friend, who was usually eccentric and strange but quite sound of mind, was not in the best of health. “But if you did not wish to be done with Sherry, then you are, as always, safe to explore whatever you will within these walls.”
“Safe.” Holmes’ lips repeated the word silently two or three times. “I suppose Baker Street is safe now.” He spoke the words slowly, as if trying out the truth of them. “But still. No need to revive such a danger.”
I limped my way over to settle on the edge of Holmes’ chair arm, my bad leg protesting every step of the way. “If you are certain. But is there nothing else I can do to help? I hear you at night. I am worried.”
“Worried, or wondering if you will have a chance again to fuck me?” The vulgarity stood out against his usually cultured speech, though his tone didn’t change.
I stiffened, feeling my cheeks heat. “Really, Holmes. Is that what you think?”
He hesitated, and then gave his head a shake. “I am sorry, Watson. I have just been out of sorts since returning home.”
“Are you sure you weren’t out of sorts while you were away, too?” I reached out, first brushing my fingers against his shoulder and then pressing harder when he didn’t show signs of distress at the contact. “I know that most studies on battle nerves assume a military history, but I imagine we have seen enough Scotland Yarders have issues to know that is not always the case, and you were fighting a great fight on your own for some years.”
Holmes hugged his knees closer to his chest. “Now you will accuse me of madness? When I am acting the most like a proper British gentleman that I ever have?”
“And the least like Holmes.” I reached out to brush hair behind his ear. “And Holmes is who I care for, not any British gentleman.”
Holmes sighed, and then his lips twitched up into a small smile. “Oh, Watson. You truly are a most remarkable man, do you know that?”
“Says the most remarkable man in the whole world.” I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I do not want to touch you unless you wish it, but would you permit me to stay with you and see if I can keep the nightmares at bay for a while?”
“And if I do wish you to touch me?” He turned to me, one eyebrow arching up. “If I wish to be Sherry, and to have us pretend that the last few years never happened?”
“They did happen.” I knew well enough that it was impossible to erase horror by pretending it had not occurred. Much better to craft something new, after the horror, and relish it. I slip my hand to his cheek. “But they do not have to dictate what happens now.”
“True enough. Sometimes you have wisdom that has eluded others. I do believe you are what most people mean when they refer to common sense, though I think the majority would be hard pressed to have so much sense as you, dear Watson.” Holmes stood, uncurling with the rapidity of a cat that has seen a mouse.
I allowed him to tug me toward his room, though a slightly confused, “Holmes?” did escape my lips.
He turned to me, another quick, fleeting smile on his lips. “I have as little wish to fall into one of my dark moods as you do to see me in one, so, how about we see if it can be alleviated via methods aside from tobacco or cocaine?”
“I am certainly willing to try,” I offered, closing the door once more behind us.
Holmes seemed to relax with each layer of clothing that I helped him out of, his smile—always quick, never wide or long lasting—coming more and more often as I tossed the garments unceremoniously to the floor. “You have missed Sherry?” Holmes asked.
“I missed you, in all your complexity. And I am so, so happy to have you back.” I cupped Sherry’s face, kissing with the slow deliberation that allowed Holmes to not only tolerate but, I thought, thoroughly enjoy the undertaking.
Holmes made a low, pleased sound, and began helping me out of my own clothes.
When we were skin to skin, I tried not to notice the new scars that had collected on Holmes’ body.
Sherry, of course, could not help noticing where I was looking. Long fingers trailed over a new scar that cut from hip to navel. “Moran came close with one shot, roughly fourteen months ago. A little deeper and he would have accidentally disemboweled me, I think.”
I leaned in and kissed the wound, trying not to imagine Holmes dying, alone, far from home. Trying not to think that I would never have known.
Holmes was here, now, under my lips; warm against my tongue as I traced the evidence of stitches that had been just a little too tight. Or perhaps just tested a bit too much, given my companion’s proclivities.
Sherry shivered, digging those talented fingers into my hair and pulling my head up. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go a bit slowly, John. I haven’t been touched like this in… quite some time.”
“Three years, give or take?” I leaned in slowly, giving Sherry time to pull away, and pressed another kiss to her lips.
“Three years, give or take. And they were very long years.” Sherry sighed, relaxing into an almost boneless heap on the bed—a very impressive feat for someone with as little body fat as she has.
“They were indeed. But they are over now.” I kissed my slow, slow way down Sherry’s body, ending up at the top of that new scar. Then I looked up into familiar gray eyes, my heart kicking hard in my chest. “How would you like me to proceed?”
Sherry tilted her head, considering. I began to fear she wouldn’t want me to gratify her, this being one of those times when she would much prefer to merely watch me come to climax, but instead she said, “I think I would like you to take me as you would any other woman, Doctor.”
It took me only a moment to work out what Holmes meant, as this was a conversation that had been had before: Sherry wanted me to try not to touch her genitals, while still achieving penetration, and hopefully orgasm for us both. It was more than I had dared to hope.
I rubbed at my thigh, considering. “My leg’s acting up today. Do you think riding me would be a satisfying enough method?”
Sherry’s fingers instantly went to my leg, massaging at the tense muscle and scar tissue. “Always, John. We’re in this to find pleasure together, are we not?”
We were.
And we did, Sherry managing the majority of the acrobatics while I gently caressed her body, whispering my adoration all the while.
When we were both spent, Sherry curled up almost atop me, our limbs twined together. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, slow and steady and satisfied. I hoped she could feel mine.
“This really is the most wondrous home,” Sherry murmured, fingers trailing along my hairline.
“The very best,” I replied, my arm tightening around Sherry’s chest.
“You are satisfied with what we are? With what we have?” Holmes tilted their head, gray eyes fixed on mine.
“I am the happiest I have ever been in my life,” I replied truthfully.
Holmes made a soft sound of assent, and squirmed down, resting their head against my chest.
Against my heart.
We both slept quite well that night, locked in each other’s arms, and if there were nightmares waiting for us in the future… they were nothing that we could not best together.