The Inferno Club, Part 2
Dec. 22nd, 2015 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargNot ten minutes later, we were able to appropriate the space which had recently been abandoned by the couple with the birch switch. I took my place on the still-warm seat, trying to ignore the curious looks that were already being directed our way. Holmes had a bowl in one hand and a length of rope in the other. The bowl came from one of the side tables where the rose-filled vases resided and contained several fresh chestnuts, no doubt intended as a decorative seasonal touch rather than a snack, as they were still in their porcupine-like hulls. Or perhaps they had been left there to be used for the very purpose which Holmes intended, and which I was yet entirely innocent of.
He set both items down on an empty chair nearby and stood in front of me, his hands steepled before his mouth, looking me over as he would a piece of evidence.
"Do you require a blindfold?" he asked me when he was quite ready.
I glanced at the audience that was beginning to gather, murmuring and nodding to each other as they assessed our equipment, positions, and physical forms. Our dubious benefactor was amongst them, of course, his arms cross over his massive chest like one of the sultan's guards in the seraglio. If I were blindfolded, I could imagine that we were alone. I was not at all certain at this point that that would be conducive to a good performance on my part, however, and that was precisely what I needed to remember: this was nothing more than a performance. A test which we needed to pass. It would not do to allow my emotions to hold sway over my actions, which was precisely what I was afraid would happen if I were left to my own devices in my head, with no anchor in reality. Not only that, I wanted to see him. I wanted to register his approbation and be able to adjust my reactions and responses according to any cues I might pick up from him, and for that I needed all of my senses. I therefore said I would prefer to keep my eyes open, and he did not argue.
"Remove your jacket, waistcoat and shirt," was his first command.
I understood that we were going to imitate in some manner the scenario of the roses which we had recently witnessed, but I did not know how far Holmes was going to take it. I had no desire to expose myself in the manner the bound subject had done. However, I considered that his rampant pose had more likely been due to the proximity of his omega than any other manipulations. As Holmes was neither mine nor any sort of omega at all and I was strangely immune to his false scent, I counted on there being little chance of a similar situation arising, in a manner of speaking.
Still, my was mouth dry and my heart racing as I complied with his direction. Holmes watched me silently with his keen, stormcloud eyes and I wished for a moment he had blindfolded me after all. I had gone bare-chested before him countless times - in fact, we had visited the Turkish Bath just two days prior, where we thought nothing of going about wearing naught but a towel covering our loins - but this was somehow different. I felt exposed and nervous. Not because of the others around us, but because I had never handed myself over to him like this, allowing him virtually free reign over my body. The spectators around us were as air, no more significant than specks of dust on the windowpane. Holmes was the only light I could see, his gaze the only one that both warmed and chilled my skin.
Holmes took each item of clothing as I divested myself and laid them over the back of the chair with the bowl and rope. He then picked up the chestnuts and approached me.
"Do you trust me, Watson?"
I had already told him so, but once again I nodded and answered affirmatively. I had no idea what was going to happen, what he was going to do. It would likely be painful, to some degree, perhaps embarrassing or even humiliating. But I wanted to prove to him ... something, I did not yet know what. That I did trust him. That I would help him. That I would do whatever he needed, whatever he asked of me. That his approval was more important than my comfort.
"Raise your arm."
I lifted my left arm, and Holmes delicately took two of the prickly balls out of the bowl and held them out to me. "Put these into your armpit and lower your arm. Make sure they don't fall out."
As long as I held them lightly between my fingers, the spines didn't prick, but the weight of my arm would drive them into the soft, tender skin underneath. I thought of the blood-speckled chest of the man with the roses and considered I would soon present a similar picture. I held the chestnuts in place with my right hand, took a deep breath and lowered my arm.
There was a sudden burst of pain. It was not excruciating, but my instinct was to lift my arm again immediately and shake the offending objects out. I gritted my teeth and let the weight of my arm drop further. I did not want to disappoint Holmes.
And it appeared that I had not.
"Very good, Watson," he said with genuine feeling. "I knew you were the man for the task. How does it feel?"
I straightened my back and shifted my shoulders back. The pain decreased as the spines were crushed and settled into place. "Fine," I said firmly, nodding to give him reassurance.
But that was the wrong answer. He frowned and shook his head. "No. No, I don't want you to lie. You can be brave and still feel pain. I want to know, Watson. I need to know. You must tell me. How does it feel?"
"It hurts a bit," I admitted. "But not the worst I've ever had. It's like being pricked with a dozen needles, but quite localized. The initial shock was the worst part, although I can still feel them now."
"Good, Watson. And now the other side."
He held out the bowl, this time allowing me to choose the chestnuts myself. I took two that appeared to have an abundance of spines and put them under my other arm. Once again, there was an initial bloom of unpleasantness, but as I knew what to expect and let my arm settle in place more quickly, it was less intense than the first time. In fact, I found that if I sat perfectly still, it was barely more than a niggling twinge.
"Are you quite comfortable, Watson?" Holmes inquired archly, obviously having noted my relaxed state.
"Not quite, but it's honestly not so bad. If I'd known this was all there was to it, I would not have tried to spare you."
"Then we must endeavor to intensify the experience. We wouldn't want you to leave disappointed." I knew the teasing words were spoken mainly for the benefit of the audience - from whose midst a knowing chuckle arose at his jest - and most particularly Shinwell Johnson; but I was grateful for his playful mood as well.
He held the bowl out again and had me add additional chestnuts, one after the other, until the space under my arms was full, and even then he caused another bowl to be fetched and continued pressing the things on me, bidding me hold my arms against my sides with the prickly hulls squeezed in between. The discomfort was not to be ignored any longer. I was forced to shift and contort my body to work the chestnuts in without letting any fall, which caused even more chafing and scraping. My skin was covered in a sheen of perspiration from my efforts and, no doubt, in direct response to the assault on my nerves. This in turn irritated the tiny cuts and punctures even further. I had no doubt the entire area from armpit to ribs and the insides of both arms would be fiery red and raw.
There was no way to go but forward. I had no thought other than my task, the bowl and its dwindling contents. When it was empty, I would be released, as the omega who had to withstand ten shocks had been. The observers around us were a blur of color and atonal buzzing. I was aware only of Holmes murmuring encouragements as I worked, and once or twice he reached out to touch my shoulder, perhaps to adjust my posture, acknowledge my efforts, or simply remind me of his presence. I did not know nor honestly care. All that mattered was the placement of the next chestnut and keeping my movements as minimal and economic as possible in order not to dislodge any of its fellows.
But when I had wedged in the last one and raised my eyes to the man before me, all thought of emancipation fled my mind. His eyes were shining, his color high, and it was worth every prick and sting to have that look directed at me and know that I was the cause.
"Extraordinary," he said, barely more than a breath. "How does it feel?"
Naturally, the question was intended to divine the level of my discomfort, but just then I was not thinking of physical sensation. I was basking in the glow of his pride and admiration. I had taken upon me an onerous duty, fulfilled it with honor and in doing so pleased him. It was a very small and silly thing, to be sure, and it seems laughable now to place such weight upon it. Perhaps it was the chemicals which the stimulation had released into my blood, or perhaps it was a premonition that a door had been opened for us with this act, but at that moment it seemed a very great thing.
My assessment of how it felt was thus delivered with a giddy and breathless gasp: "Exhilarating."
Holmes' mouth drew up into a grin. "You are interested in more then?"
"God help me, yes."
"Watson - " But he did not speak further. His hand clenched around the empty bowl, and he appeared to be struggling either to speak or to hold something back. In the end, he whirled around and exchanged the bowl for the rope he had left behind earlier.
Holmes is an adept at knots and the art of ropes, having made a study of some of the methods of "Handcuff" Houdini and refining them with his own tricks. In a trice, he had my chest wrapped in several coils, binding my arms firmly in place. This was both a relief and a fiendish device. A relief because I no longer had to flex my muscles to maintain my position. Devil's work because it gave Holmes the means to apply additional pressure to my arms and thus to the chestnuts hidden beneath them.
He had rigged some combination of knots behind my back that allowed him to increase or decrease the force with which the ropes constricted my torso. As soon as I had arrived at an equilibrium in one state, he would loosen the bonds a notch, causing more blood to flow into the abused area and with it a fresh wave of sensitivity. No sooner had the throbbing begun to ease than he would pull back again, driving the bristles back into their old holes and making new ones. I was not allowed to be complacent, either, as I was made to continually report on the state of my circulation, respiration, and discomfort. I let my eyes fall shut and rocked back and forth on the rolling crests and troughs of sensation.
When this had continued for some minutes I began to feel quite distant, yet pleasantly so, as in the moments just before sleep hits. It was not that the pain in my arms and sides had disappeared, but it no longer demanded the entirety of my attention; indeed, I felt as if my attention were drifting away entirely.
Finally, I stirred when I felt Holmes ease off the ropes and step away. Thinking we must be finished, I lifted my head, which had fallen forward as if in a doze, and looked around. Our corner of the club was populated only by a small circle of onlookers. Some lounged on a nearby couch and others stood around with a casual, detached air. This was clearly not a very rousing nor exotic demonstration; no doubt the regular members were rather jaded and expected a greater value of entertainment. Yet for myself, I had rarely spent a more exciting evening, and I was surprised to discover a rising sense of disappointment that it should be over. What I had entered into with such skepticism and apprehension I was now exiting with a whetted appetite and a half-formed notion that we might repeat the exercise or engage in a variation at a future date. It was after all not that different from Holmes' boxing rounds or a night spent bending elbows at the pub, and it had the advantage that it was something which engaged both of our attention.
Wherever Holmes had disappeared to, he had not gone far, and returned to his position behind me within a few seconds. I rolled my shoulders and neck, expecting him to begin untying me, but instead I felt his hand rest upon my head. A tingle ran down my spine. Perhaps he was not finished with me after all. He had left the ropes in a position that would continue to hold my arms in place but did not pose any danger of numbing them entirely. As long as I did not move, the discomfort was quite tolerable.
"Are you tired, Watson?" he asked, placing his other hand on my shoulder. It felt oddly stiff and cool, until I realized he had put on his gloves. That must have meant something, but my thoughts were slow and syrupy and I could not fathom what.
"A little," I answered his query, surprised to find it was true. It was not so late, after all.
"Are you able to continue? Do you need me to release you?"
"No, you can go on." My heart jumped in anticipation, although I remained in a rather languid state.
"Good. You have performed remarkably thus far. Are you enjoying yourself?"
"More than I thought possible," I said honestly.
"I'm curious, then, what you will think of this."
The comforting weight of his hands lifted, only to be replaced a moment later on my head by what I instantly recognized to be another chestnut. He rolled the prickly fruit across my scalp, but thanks to the protection of my still full head of hair, the spines did not penetrate my skin. My nerve endings teetered on the verge of reporting pain but never quite tipped over the edge. Instead, they settled on an ever-changing array of tingles, shivers, itches and tickles that radiated across my head, into the tips of my ears, down my neck, into my chest, and further south. I grew warm and hummed with satisfaction. I was not in any danger of putting on a display like the other alpha had earlier, but I believed now to understand how he might have arrived at such a state.
"I don't believe that's quite having the intended effect," I eventually admitted regretfully, although I could not entirely keep the smugness out of my voice.
"What do you imagine my intention is, then?" Holmes leaned down to speak the question close to my ear, so low that I did not think it was audible to anyone else. His cheek brushed my ear and his hand rested on my head, such that he was all but embracing me. If I had turned my head just then, it would have been difficult to avoid rubbing my nose and mustache against his face. His omega perfume was either wearing off or his natural scent growing stronger, for the smell was quite unmistakable now, although perhaps only because of our close proximity.
"Holmes, you smell..." Dangerous. Delicious. I wanted to warn him but did not know how. He confused me.
"As do you," he replied before I could gather my wits, as if I had finished my statement. Perhaps I had. I was not thinking straight.
He withdrew abruptly, leaving a cool emptiness behind that ached to be filled with his presence once more. Instead, he now came to stand in front of me, his legs spread on either side of my knees, and resumed rubbing the chestnut husk over my neck, my shoulders, my arms, and my chest. The constantly changing pressure and position left me tingling and gasping, half from the stimulation and half from the excitement of him pressing his attack. I watched his face, enthralled, as he carried out this exercise, fascinated by the way his eyes darkened and his nostrils flared in response to the hitches of my breath, the involuntary twitches of my body, the flush and tightening of my skin which his ministrations left in their wake.
My nipples bulged out between two of the cords wrapped around me, and Holmes took extra care to pass the prickly chestnut over them, back and forth, over and over, until I was certain he was intentionally trying to elicit a very particular response from me.
"Tell me to stop and I shall," he said, perhaps for the benefit of those who were watching or perhaps for my sake. I did not know, but God help me, I did not want him to stop. I knew what he was after, although for what purpose I could not begin to imagine; was it part of his plan? Was he trying to provoke me into stopping him and bringing the evening to a conclusion? Was this merely an excuse to end the game? I glanced down to see the stirring in my trousers were becoming as obvious as it felt. As I did my eye caught on Holmes' front, which was positioned directly before me. The way he stood, bent slightly forward, the bottom of his suit jacket gaped open, allowing me a view of the outline of his clearly non-omega member surging up against his belt. I did not think it was visible to anyone else, but it would give us away in a trice if it were. My arousal dissipated in the face of this new development.
"Holmes," I whispered fiercely, my eyes darting back to his.
His mouth had parted and he had just drawn in a breath. It reminded me of the look of anticipation that came over him just before the climactic notes were played in one of his favorite symphonies. He was perhaps about to say something, but the look on my own face must have brought him back down from whatever sphere he had visited.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his attentive eyes darting back and forth from my face to the ropes, my arms with the chestnuts still stuffed under them, and back again.
I widened my eyes and pressed my lips together, not daring to so much as glance in the direction of the offending part, for fear it would draw other, unwanted attention to it as well.
"I believe I have had enough," I said, hoping he understood that I meant quite the opposite.
Holmes froze, momentarily derailed, but no more than a second later I was fairly able to discern the moment in which he became aware of the nature of his situation.
"Of course," he said. He straightened and pulled his jacket together, making the adjustment appear completely natural and by-the-by.
"I apologize, but I find that my interest has exceeded that which I feel comfortable displaying," I said in what I hoped was a gracious manner, including the surrounding guests in my admission.
"I quite understand," Holmes answered me with a small smile.
As for the rest, there was some scattered, half-hearted applause before people started drifting away in seek of more tantalizing stimulus. Shinwell Johnson was amongst them, and he came over to offer a few insipid comments on our performance before taking his leave to fetch Kitty Winter. I was glad to have avoided any further discussion or confrontation. My discomfort was increasing with the end of Holmes' attentions, my muscles stiff from being held immobile for so long and my arms and legs beginning to fall asleep.
Hearing this, Holmes swiftly came around behind me and untied the knots. He leaned into me as he unwrapped the ropes, whether by design or accident I could not know, but in doing so I felt the unmistakable imprint of his continued excitement against the back of my neck. It was entirely possible, of course, that he was simply taking practical measures to conceal himself until his outward appearance was once again indistinguishable from that of a run-of-the-mill omega. I did not mind.
Once my arms were freed, I let the chestnuts fall to the floor. Holmes reached in with his gloved hand to help dislodge two or three pieces whose spines had dug themselves into my skin far enough to gain a foothold. I could now see the damage which had been done. It was not too bad, all in all. The overall impression was that of a nasty rash, with one or two small cuts, but very little blood had been spilled in the end. The cool air on my moist, raw skin was unpleasant, however. I felt chilly and slow, although my disappointment at the unforeseen end to our encounter was tempered by Holmes' gentle hands and steady presence at my back.
Kitty Winter appeared then, and Holmes steadied my elbow as I stood gingerly, shaking the blood back into my feet. She smiled and introduced herself before laying the white sheet she had brought over my shoulders. Holmes adjusted it until he was satisfied it covered me sufficiently, which I found both amusing and oddly touching. He then retrieved my clothes and together we set off with the omega leading the way toward a door that was tucked away behind a potted tree.
It turned out the club had several smaller rooms at its disposal. We were led into one which was appointed as a bedchamber. I recalled Shinwell Johnson's smirking hints at the purpose of these back-room hideouts, and suggested I would only have need of the wash basin in the corner to wipe away the few traces of our adventure.
Miss Winter looked skeptical. "You can do what you want, but you'll be happier later on if you come down nice and slow now. I'm telling you as you're green, I don't mean no disrespect. There's bandages and ointments in here if you want," she said, opening a cabinet.
I saw the wisdom in the latter part of her suggestion, at least, and took a few items which I thought useful out of the cabinet. No sooner had I turned around, however, than Holmes plucked them out of my hands and wrangled me into one of the practical armchairs the room provided, where he proceeded to efficiently clean and tend to my wounds. I did not bother protesting. In truth, I coveted his hands on me, although I made every attempt to comport myself with dignity and decorum.
Miss Winter, meanwhile, set her fists on her hips and got straight to business.
"Porky Shinwell told me you were after a man, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I'll tell you straight, if I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle."
She readily agreed to share all she knew of Baron Gruner. As she spoke, her pale, pinched face reflected an intensity of hatred that spoke of deeply felt injustices. She blamed him for her current lot in life, having been used most cruelly by the Austrian. We discovered just how cruelly when she turned her back to us and began unbuttoning her dress.
"I won't say pardon, as it's the best way to show you what kind of man Adelbert Gruner is."
She pulled the dress off her shoulder far enough for us to have a glimpse of the ruin that was left of her back.
"I've heard a bit about you, Mr. Holmes, and I reckon you've seen better and worse. Your doctor friend might know what did it."
"Vitriol, I would say." Applied repeatedly. I was shaken. Even from that distance, I could see layers of scars, criss-crossed striations, new wounds applied over old ones. I could not begin to imagine the horrors the poor girl must have endured. I had known Gruner was a murderer, but I had never learned the circumstances of his wife's death. I could only hope, for her sake, it was kinder than what was done to Kitty Winter.
"That's it." She shrugged her dress back on. "He's fond of the games, he is. I am too, for what it's worth. But it's not just games to him, that's the rub. You've got to see him when he's that far gone. It's like looking into the pits of hell. That lot out there's all for fun, that's all right." She jerked her head back toward the main club room. "A bit of a slap and a tickle never hurt no one. But let one like him get an omega under his hand, and there's no telling what he'll do. He doesn't care as long as it makes them scream. It's what saved me in the end. I knew how to scream."
She offered to go to Violet de Merville and share with her what she had with us, but Gruner's fiancée was so inured to tales of his past wrongdoings it was doubtful even that would sway her.
"My Lord, she must have a nerve!" Miss Winter exclaimed. "But I'll lay there's one thing that might shake her." She went on to tell us about a "beastly book" which Baron Gruner kept, a gruesome catalog of horrors including photographs, names, details, everything about each of his victims. He kept it well hidden and guarded, and she was doubtful we would be able to lay hand on it. But it was our only lead.
Holmes agreed to take her along to see Miss de Merville next evening, in case the vivid evidence of what lay ahead for her should she throw her lot in with Gruner would cause her to see reason. She then left the two of us to "come down" as she had put it, and returned to her duties.
"I apologize for getting carried away," Holmes murmured once we were alone, carefully wiping some excess ointment from my side.
"Not at all," I assured him. "It was a most informative exercise." I watched as he put the finishing touches on the last bandage. The silence between us was thick. I did not know how to say that I had been quite as carried away as he. That I wished we had both been carried even further. To the furthest reaches of what was possible. "I might not have minded continuing it." The words dropped awkwardly into the space between us. Privately, I meant to say. In a safe place, away from prying eyes and judgmental minds.
"It was clearly for the best that you stopped it when you did." Holmes' hand lingered on my side, warm and solid. He let his thumb caress the edge of the bandage, a wholly unnecessary gesture but one that I welcomed more than was good for either of us.
It was really in that moment, I believe, that I understood what I wanted from him, and for us. What I wanted to give to him, and share with him. It was what we already shared: a life. What we already had shared in the past: a home. There had always been just one element missing from what was between us; although it was never missed. I had never considered it to be something that would ever be part of our friendship. It was not necessary. But tonight I had seen that it might be good. It could be the final element that we shared, something that we gave to each other.
Tonight for the first time I saw Holmes enjoying his physicality, taking pleasure in his own body and in someone else's. I should modestly like to think in large part (wholly, really) it was because I was the one there with him. Because he enjoyed doing those things to me, and for me, and seeing my body respond the way it did, seeing the affection in my eyes and the devotion on my face. I wanted to make his body respond that way too. I wanted to let him know how extraordinary he was.
He was no ordinary man, and the ordinary cares of an ordinary life were never enough to hold his interest. He needed master minds, criminal geniuses, and archnemeses to match wits with and stimulate his massive intellect. It only stood to reason that he would need extraordinary measures to stimulate his body as well. The cocaine and morphine were surely one attempt to do just that, to get his heart racing and his blood pumping the way mine - and, I believed, his - had tonight. "The games", as Miss Winter called them, could be another. And it turned out we both responded favorably to them, or at least to some of the practices. We could try other ones. Now that I had an idea of it all, I wanted to give him the chance to be on the receiving end, if he was still interested. I wanted to do all of that for him, and more.
But I did not say any of that. How could I? It was all too fresh, the emotions and impressions too new and immature. All of that swirled through my mind in an instant, a vague and unformed mass of unconnected points. It would take them several days to coalesce into actionable ideas and plans.
Instead, stupidly, I said, "I was thinking only of practical concerns. If anyone had found out we are both alphas..."
"Quite." Holmes let go of me, leaving me with only the ghost of his fingers on my skin. "Well, I believe you'll live, Watson." He stood up and wiped his hands on a towel.
~~.~~.~~
The next two or three days, I was stiff and sore, which was only to be expected. What I did not expect was the relish with which I luxuriated in each twinge and ache. My every movement reminded me of our actions at the Inferno Club. I reached for my teacup and felt the echo of ropes in the way the sleeve of my dressing gown pulled against my arm. I rolled over in bed and then did it again just to feel the bloom of soreness all along my sides. Every swing of my arm as I walked down the street shot sparks into my armpits, adding a smug spring to my step.
The first morning, I even forewent replacing the bandages which Holmes had tenderly applied, in order that I might carry his handiwork with me a few hours longer. When I did remove them, it was to the realization that the more important and artful handiwork was underneath. I spent long minutes in the morning and evening examining the patterns of tiny cuts and bruises that mottled my sides and arms. I wanted to share them with Holmes, to show him how he had left his marks on me, but it seemed too intimate and tender a subject to broach, especially in light of the cordial manner we had parted that night, each of us returning to our own abode with no more than a light handshake.
At night, I thrust my hand under my nightshirt as I lay in bed in the dark, running my fingers over the fine network of scabs that decorated my skin like a star-speckled sky. It was not a distant leap from there to re-visit the sites that Holmes had touched with the chestnut husk: my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my nipples. I scratched at them with my nail, in imitation of the piquant stimulation they had endured under Holmes' ministrations. I was able to induce a state of attention, but it was a poor relation of the fiery tempest that had begun to build under Holmes' hands, only to dissipate before its powerful surge could overpower me.
We spoke of none of this, of course, despite meeting over dinner the subsequent evening so that I might keep abreast of developments in Miss de Merville's case. Kitty Winter's visit to her in Holmes' company was a disaster very nearly ending in a cat fight, with Holmes having to bodily drag the hostess from "Hell" out to the waiting cab.
He had either foregone his omega perfume for the visit or washed quite thoroughly before coming back out, as I could not detect a trace of it this time. His smoky alpha scent was so welcome and appealing that I found myself drawing my chair in and leaning quite blatantly over the table in order to get closer to its source. It did not excite my sensibilities the way a ripe omega's scent might, but I imagined it would be quite satisfactory to get my nose pressed right up against the bonding ridge at the base of his neck whilst he dragged his fingers over my back and sides, probing my bruises and pressing his thumbs into the hollows of my reddened armpits.
I was glad to have confirmation that my reactions at the club and the insights which derived from them were not a product of false chemistry. It was Holmes himself who captured my attention and toward whose pole my compass was aligned. My interest was not heightened when he presented himself as an omega. On the contrary, I was disturbed and had the impulse to restore his natural state, the way a mother cat will lick her kittens until they are very nearly raw if they chance to get another scent on them. In other words, Holmes' gender was not immaterial in the equation; it was his very alphahood that made him notable. I knew that this made me a criminal in the eyes of the law, even if my interest were localized to a single person. But my inclinations and affections had been present for so long - albeit unacknowledged - that I was not greatly troubled by the realization. It did not demand a shift in my perception of myself, but rather an acceptance of what had been there all along.
I was not ready to lay myself bare before him so soon, however, even if only in a figurative sense this time. I did not want to distract his concentration from the very serious matter of the unfortunate Miss de Merville. There was another consideration as well, namely that he never made a single mention of our visit to the Inferno Club himself. I was not too put off by this; I knew he was a private person and often found discussions of a personal nature distasteful, or pooh-poohed matters of the heart as frivolous. His actions in the "games room" and afterward, when he paid me so patient attention, spoke louder to me than his current silence. He might simply have set those things aside for the time being, for the sake of his client. Or he might be working through his own confusion at what had passed between us. I would not press the issue, as there was no urgency in its resolution. I decided to let the matter rest for several days or longer, at least until the conclusion of the current case.
One may imagine the pang of horror which passed through my very soul, then, when my eyes fell upon the headline proclaiming a vicious attack upon my most dear one not two days hence. I will refrain from repeating a description of my frantic journey to his bedside and the quite serious injuries which he had sustained.
The surgeon who had attended him in the immediate aftermath of the assault prescribed that he remain confined to his rooms for the duration of his convalescence, or until he was fit to resume his usual activities, and I concurred. As this coincided nicely with Holmes' scheme to lull Gruner into a false sense of security by misleading him into the belief that Holmes lay at death's door, we received no complaint.
Mrs. Hudson was good enough to air out my old room and allow me to bring over the few items I would need for a stay of several days. The poor woman had never found another lodger willing to put up with the noisome vapors and alarming sounds emanating from the main flat, to say nothing of the steady stream of visitors at all hours who found their way to Holmes' door. She would never admit it, but I knew she was too fond of Holmes to turn him out despite all of the disadvantages to allowing him a spot in her home. I confess I suffered from a similar weakness.
Said scourge of landladies and doctors spent much of the first two or three days reclining in bed or lounging on his couch, poring voraciously over the newspapers and circulars he sent me out to fetch twice a day. By that time, however, a nervous boredom began to set in, and I caught him more than once gazing longingly at the case containing his needles. Against my better judgment, I allowed him to smoke as many cigarettes as he wished in order to dull the craving I knew he felt for stimulation, until my own head began to spin in the thick, heavy air.
The third night, it seemed Holmes had reached his limit for inactivity. He prowled around the sitting room long past midnight, his eyes wild and his hands fluttering from his throat to his unwashed hair to his dry, chapped lips, muttering things that I half suspected to be the ravings of a madman. It was then that a notion began to germinate. In truth, it had been sown much earlier, but now it took root and gave me the first real glimpse of its young, green shoots. The soil was yet rocky, and I did not know whether the season was right, but I believed with a bit of attention, it would yet provide a fruitful harvest. All I needed were the appropriate tools.
Next morning, while on my usual errands to procure tobacco and the latest broadsheets, I sent a note to Kitty Winter, not knowing anyone else other than Shinwell Johnson whom I might approach in such a delicate matter, and I would be damned to seek him out for guidance.
I requested that any reply be directed to my practice, and it was thence that I hastened on my evening round. I was rewarded with a brief yet succinct letter which provided me everything I had asked for. I packed up a couple items from the surgery, and a quick detour to Fortnum's on my way back saw me equipped with everything I might need.
When I arrived at Baker Street, I went directly up to my room (for so I considered it again already) to deposit my parcels before re-joining Holmes. His mood had deteriorated, and I entered to a barrage of reprimands for my tardiness. I made some excuse or other, but he was not to be mollified, and continued to sulk through the excellent dinner Mrs. Hudson prepared for us. The good woman had gone out of her way all week to tempt Holmes' fussy palate with delicate morsels and hearty dishes designed to hasten his return to full health. That night, he deigned to eat no more than a few spoonfuls of the rich consommé and did little more than pick at his roast.
When he disappeared into his room, I thought he might have decided to turn in for the night and there would be no need for the distractions I had planned after all. I was glad if he was able to succumb to some much-needed slumber, although I was uncertain if I would have the nerve to follow through on my preparations another time, should they be postponed tonight. So it was that my heart leapt with both anticipation and no small amount of nervous agitation when Holmes re-emerged, bearing his beloved violin and bow along with a thunderous scowl beneath the white bandage which still adorned his head.
He made a few attempts at playing a tune, pausing from time to time to curse the stiffness in his swollen and bruised knuckles. Even with my dull ear I could tell the execution was unsatisfactory, and Holmes' displeasure and frustration grew with each scratch of the bow over the strings. It seemed I would have my chance after all. I went up to my room to fetch the goods.
Go to Part 3
He set both items down on an empty chair nearby and stood in front of me, his hands steepled before his mouth, looking me over as he would a piece of evidence.
"Do you require a blindfold?" he asked me when he was quite ready.
I glanced at the audience that was beginning to gather, murmuring and nodding to each other as they assessed our equipment, positions, and physical forms. Our dubious benefactor was amongst them, of course, his arms cross over his massive chest like one of the sultan's guards in the seraglio. If I were blindfolded, I could imagine that we were alone. I was not at all certain at this point that that would be conducive to a good performance on my part, however, and that was precisely what I needed to remember: this was nothing more than a performance. A test which we needed to pass. It would not do to allow my emotions to hold sway over my actions, which was precisely what I was afraid would happen if I were left to my own devices in my head, with no anchor in reality. Not only that, I wanted to see him. I wanted to register his approbation and be able to adjust my reactions and responses according to any cues I might pick up from him, and for that I needed all of my senses. I therefore said I would prefer to keep my eyes open, and he did not argue.
"Remove your jacket, waistcoat and shirt," was his first command.
I understood that we were going to imitate in some manner the scenario of the roses which we had recently witnessed, but I did not know how far Holmes was going to take it. I had no desire to expose myself in the manner the bound subject had done. However, I considered that his rampant pose had more likely been due to the proximity of his omega than any other manipulations. As Holmes was neither mine nor any sort of omega at all and I was strangely immune to his false scent, I counted on there being little chance of a similar situation arising, in a manner of speaking.
Still, my was mouth dry and my heart racing as I complied with his direction. Holmes watched me silently with his keen, stormcloud eyes and I wished for a moment he had blindfolded me after all. I had gone bare-chested before him countless times - in fact, we had visited the Turkish Bath just two days prior, where we thought nothing of going about wearing naught but a towel covering our loins - but this was somehow different. I felt exposed and nervous. Not because of the others around us, but because I had never handed myself over to him like this, allowing him virtually free reign over my body. The spectators around us were as air, no more significant than specks of dust on the windowpane. Holmes was the only light I could see, his gaze the only one that both warmed and chilled my skin.
Holmes took each item of clothing as I divested myself and laid them over the back of the chair with the bowl and rope. He then picked up the chestnuts and approached me.
"Do you trust me, Watson?"
I had already told him so, but once again I nodded and answered affirmatively. I had no idea what was going to happen, what he was going to do. It would likely be painful, to some degree, perhaps embarrassing or even humiliating. But I wanted to prove to him ... something, I did not yet know what. That I did trust him. That I would help him. That I would do whatever he needed, whatever he asked of me. That his approval was more important than my comfort.
"Raise your arm."
I lifted my left arm, and Holmes delicately took two of the prickly balls out of the bowl and held them out to me. "Put these into your armpit and lower your arm. Make sure they don't fall out."
As long as I held them lightly between my fingers, the spines didn't prick, but the weight of my arm would drive them into the soft, tender skin underneath. I thought of the blood-speckled chest of the man with the roses and considered I would soon present a similar picture. I held the chestnuts in place with my right hand, took a deep breath and lowered my arm.
There was a sudden burst of pain. It was not excruciating, but my instinct was to lift my arm again immediately and shake the offending objects out. I gritted my teeth and let the weight of my arm drop further. I did not want to disappoint Holmes.
And it appeared that I had not.
"Very good, Watson," he said with genuine feeling. "I knew you were the man for the task. How does it feel?"
I straightened my back and shifted my shoulders back. The pain decreased as the spines were crushed and settled into place. "Fine," I said firmly, nodding to give him reassurance.
But that was the wrong answer. He frowned and shook his head. "No. No, I don't want you to lie. You can be brave and still feel pain. I want to know, Watson. I need to know. You must tell me. How does it feel?"
"It hurts a bit," I admitted. "But not the worst I've ever had. It's like being pricked with a dozen needles, but quite localized. The initial shock was the worst part, although I can still feel them now."
"Good, Watson. And now the other side."
He held out the bowl, this time allowing me to choose the chestnuts myself. I took two that appeared to have an abundance of spines and put them under my other arm. Once again, there was an initial bloom of unpleasantness, but as I knew what to expect and let my arm settle in place more quickly, it was less intense than the first time. In fact, I found that if I sat perfectly still, it was barely more than a niggling twinge.
"Are you quite comfortable, Watson?" Holmes inquired archly, obviously having noted my relaxed state.
"Not quite, but it's honestly not so bad. If I'd known this was all there was to it, I would not have tried to spare you."
"Then we must endeavor to intensify the experience. We wouldn't want you to leave disappointed." I knew the teasing words were spoken mainly for the benefit of the audience - from whose midst a knowing chuckle arose at his jest - and most particularly Shinwell Johnson; but I was grateful for his playful mood as well.
He held the bowl out again and had me add additional chestnuts, one after the other, until the space under my arms was full, and even then he caused another bowl to be fetched and continued pressing the things on me, bidding me hold my arms against my sides with the prickly hulls squeezed in between. The discomfort was not to be ignored any longer. I was forced to shift and contort my body to work the chestnuts in without letting any fall, which caused even more chafing and scraping. My skin was covered in a sheen of perspiration from my efforts and, no doubt, in direct response to the assault on my nerves. This in turn irritated the tiny cuts and punctures even further. I had no doubt the entire area from armpit to ribs and the insides of both arms would be fiery red and raw.
There was no way to go but forward. I had no thought other than my task, the bowl and its dwindling contents. When it was empty, I would be released, as the omega who had to withstand ten shocks had been. The observers around us were a blur of color and atonal buzzing. I was aware only of Holmes murmuring encouragements as I worked, and once or twice he reached out to touch my shoulder, perhaps to adjust my posture, acknowledge my efforts, or simply remind me of his presence. I did not know nor honestly care. All that mattered was the placement of the next chestnut and keeping my movements as minimal and economic as possible in order not to dislodge any of its fellows.
But when I had wedged in the last one and raised my eyes to the man before me, all thought of emancipation fled my mind. His eyes were shining, his color high, and it was worth every prick and sting to have that look directed at me and know that I was the cause.
"Extraordinary," he said, barely more than a breath. "How does it feel?"
Naturally, the question was intended to divine the level of my discomfort, but just then I was not thinking of physical sensation. I was basking in the glow of his pride and admiration. I had taken upon me an onerous duty, fulfilled it with honor and in doing so pleased him. It was a very small and silly thing, to be sure, and it seems laughable now to place such weight upon it. Perhaps it was the chemicals which the stimulation had released into my blood, or perhaps it was a premonition that a door had been opened for us with this act, but at that moment it seemed a very great thing.
My assessment of how it felt was thus delivered with a giddy and breathless gasp: "Exhilarating."
Holmes' mouth drew up into a grin. "You are interested in more then?"
"God help me, yes."
"Watson - " But he did not speak further. His hand clenched around the empty bowl, and he appeared to be struggling either to speak or to hold something back. In the end, he whirled around and exchanged the bowl for the rope he had left behind earlier.
Holmes is an adept at knots and the art of ropes, having made a study of some of the methods of "Handcuff" Houdini and refining them with his own tricks. In a trice, he had my chest wrapped in several coils, binding my arms firmly in place. This was both a relief and a fiendish device. A relief because I no longer had to flex my muscles to maintain my position. Devil's work because it gave Holmes the means to apply additional pressure to my arms and thus to the chestnuts hidden beneath them.
He had rigged some combination of knots behind my back that allowed him to increase or decrease the force with which the ropes constricted my torso. As soon as I had arrived at an equilibrium in one state, he would loosen the bonds a notch, causing more blood to flow into the abused area and with it a fresh wave of sensitivity. No sooner had the throbbing begun to ease than he would pull back again, driving the bristles back into their old holes and making new ones. I was not allowed to be complacent, either, as I was made to continually report on the state of my circulation, respiration, and discomfort. I let my eyes fall shut and rocked back and forth on the rolling crests and troughs of sensation.
When this had continued for some minutes I began to feel quite distant, yet pleasantly so, as in the moments just before sleep hits. It was not that the pain in my arms and sides had disappeared, but it no longer demanded the entirety of my attention; indeed, I felt as if my attention were drifting away entirely.
Finally, I stirred when I felt Holmes ease off the ropes and step away. Thinking we must be finished, I lifted my head, which had fallen forward as if in a doze, and looked around. Our corner of the club was populated only by a small circle of onlookers. Some lounged on a nearby couch and others stood around with a casual, detached air. This was clearly not a very rousing nor exotic demonstration; no doubt the regular members were rather jaded and expected a greater value of entertainment. Yet for myself, I had rarely spent a more exciting evening, and I was surprised to discover a rising sense of disappointment that it should be over. What I had entered into with such skepticism and apprehension I was now exiting with a whetted appetite and a half-formed notion that we might repeat the exercise or engage in a variation at a future date. It was after all not that different from Holmes' boxing rounds or a night spent bending elbows at the pub, and it had the advantage that it was something which engaged both of our attention.
Wherever Holmes had disappeared to, he had not gone far, and returned to his position behind me within a few seconds. I rolled my shoulders and neck, expecting him to begin untying me, but instead I felt his hand rest upon my head. A tingle ran down my spine. Perhaps he was not finished with me after all. He had left the ropes in a position that would continue to hold my arms in place but did not pose any danger of numbing them entirely. As long as I did not move, the discomfort was quite tolerable.
"Are you tired, Watson?" he asked, placing his other hand on my shoulder. It felt oddly stiff and cool, until I realized he had put on his gloves. That must have meant something, but my thoughts were slow and syrupy and I could not fathom what.
"A little," I answered his query, surprised to find it was true. It was not so late, after all.
"Are you able to continue? Do you need me to release you?"
"No, you can go on." My heart jumped in anticipation, although I remained in a rather languid state.
"Good. You have performed remarkably thus far. Are you enjoying yourself?"
"More than I thought possible," I said honestly.
"I'm curious, then, what you will think of this."
The comforting weight of his hands lifted, only to be replaced a moment later on my head by what I instantly recognized to be another chestnut. He rolled the prickly fruit across my scalp, but thanks to the protection of my still full head of hair, the spines did not penetrate my skin. My nerve endings teetered on the verge of reporting pain but never quite tipped over the edge. Instead, they settled on an ever-changing array of tingles, shivers, itches and tickles that radiated across my head, into the tips of my ears, down my neck, into my chest, and further south. I grew warm and hummed with satisfaction. I was not in any danger of putting on a display like the other alpha had earlier, but I believed now to understand how he might have arrived at such a state.
"I don't believe that's quite having the intended effect," I eventually admitted regretfully, although I could not entirely keep the smugness out of my voice.
"What do you imagine my intention is, then?" Holmes leaned down to speak the question close to my ear, so low that I did not think it was audible to anyone else. His cheek brushed my ear and his hand rested on my head, such that he was all but embracing me. If I had turned my head just then, it would have been difficult to avoid rubbing my nose and mustache against his face. His omega perfume was either wearing off or his natural scent growing stronger, for the smell was quite unmistakable now, although perhaps only because of our close proximity.
"Holmes, you smell..." Dangerous. Delicious. I wanted to warn him but did not know how. He confused me.
"As do you," he replied before I could gather my wits, as if I had finished my statement. Perhaps I had. I was not thinking straight.
He withdrew abruptly, leaving a cool emptiness behind that ached to be filled with his presence once more. Instead, he now came to stand in front of me, his legs spread on either side of my knees, and resumed rubbing the chestnut husk over my neck, my shoulders, my arms, and my chest. The constantly changing pressure and position left me tingling and gasping, half from the stimulation and half from the excitement of him pressing his attack. I watched his face, enthralled, as he carried out this exercise, fascinated by the way his eyes darkened and his nostrils flared in response to the hitches of my breath, the involuntary twitches of my body, the flush and tightening of my skin which his ministrations left in their wake.
My nipples bulged out between two of the cords wrapped around me, and Holmes took extra care to pass the prickly chestnut over them, back and forth, over and over, until I was certain he was intentionally trying to elicit a very particular response from me.
"Tell me to stop and I shall," he said, perhaps for the benefit of those who were watching or perhaps for my sake. I did not know, but God help me, I did not want him to stop. I knew what he was after, although for what purpose I could not begin to imagine; was it part of his plan? Was he trying to provoke me into stopping him and bringing the evening to a conclusion? Was this merely an excuse to end the game? I glanced down to see the stirring in my trousers were becoming as obvious as it felt. As I did my eye caught on Holmes' front, which was positioned directly before me. The way he stood, bent slightly forward, the bottom of his suit jacket gaped open, allowing me a view of the outline of his clearly non-omega member surging up against his belt. I did not think it was visible to anyone else, but it would give us away in a trice if it were. My arousal dissipated in the face of this new development.
"Holmes," I whispered fiercely, my eyes darting back to his.
His mouth had parted and he had just drawn in a breath. It reminded me of the look of anticipation that came over him just before the climactic notes were played in one of his favorite symphonies. He was perhaps about to say something, but the look on my own face must have brought him back down from whatever sphere he had visited.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his attentive eyes darting back and forth from my face to the ropes, my arms with the chestnuts still stuffed under them, and back again.
I widened my eyes and pressed my lips together, not daring to so much as glance in the direction of the offending part, for fear it would draw other, unwanted attention to it as well.
"I believe I have had enough," I said, hoping he understood that I meant quite the opposite.
Holmes froze, momentarily derailed, but no more than a second later I was fairly able to discern the moment in which he became aware of the nature of his situation.
"Of course," he said. He straightened and pulled his jacket together, making the adjustment appear completely natural and by-the-by.
"I apologize, but I find that my interest has exceeded that which I feel comfortable displaying," I said in what I hoped was a gracious manner, including the surrounding guests in my admission.
"I quite understand," Holmes answered me with a small smile.
As for the rest, there was some scattered, half-hearted applause before people started drifting away in seek of more tantalizing stimulus. Shinwell Johnson was amongst them, and he came over to offer a few insipid comments on our performance before taking his leave to fetch Kitty Winter. I was glad to have avoided any further discussion or confrontation. My discomfort was increasing with the end of Holmes' attentions, my muscles stiff from being held immobile for so long and my arms and legs beginning to fall asleep.
Hearing this, Holmes swiftly came around behind me and untied the knots. He leaned into me as he unwrapped the ropes, whether by design or accident I could not know, but in doing so I felt the unmistakable imprint of his continued excitement against the back of my neck. It was entirely possible, of course, that he was simply taking practical measures to conceal himself until his outward appearance was once again indistinguishable from that of a run-of-the-mill omega. I did not mind.
Once my arms were freed, I let the chestnuts fall to the floor. Holmes reached in with his gloved hand to help dislodge two or three pieces whose spines had dug themselves into my skin far enough to gain a foothold. I could now see the damage which had been done. It was not too bad, all in all. The overall impression was that of a nasty rash, with one or two small cuts, but very little blood had been spilled in the end. The cool air on my moist, raw skin was unpleasant, however. I felt chilly and slow, although my disappointment at the unforeseen end to our encounter was tempered by Holmes' gentle hands and steady presence at my back.
Kitty Winter appeared then, and Holmes steadied my elbow as I stood gingerly, shaking the blood back into my feet. She smiled and introduced herself before laying the white sheet she had brought over my shoulders. Holmes adjusted it until he was satisfied it covered me sufficiently, which I found both amusing and oddly touching. He then retrieved my clothes and together we set off with the omega leading the way toward a door that was tucked away behind a potted tree.
It turned out the club had several smaller rooms at its disposal. We were led into one which was appointed as a bedchamber. I recalled Shinwell Johnson's smirking hints at the purpose of these back-room hideouts, and suggested I would only have need of the wash basin in the corner to wipe away the few traces of our adventure.
Miss Winter looked skeptical. "You can do what you want, but you'll be happier later on if you come down nice and slow now. I'm telling you as you're green, I don't mean no disrespect. There's bandages and ointments in here if you want," she said, opening a cabinet.
I saw the wisdom in the latter part of her suggestion, at least, and took a few items which I thought useful out of the cabinet. No sooner had I turned around, however, than Holmes plucked them out of my hands and wrangled me into one of the practical armchairs the room provided, where he proceeded to efficiently clean and tend to my wounds. I did not bother protesting. In truth, I coveted his hands on me, although I made every attempt to comport myself with dignity and decorum.
Miss Winter, meanwhile, set her fists on her hips and got straight to business.
"Porky Shinwell told me you were after a man, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I'll tell you straight, if I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle."
She readily agreed to share all she knew of Baron Gruner. As she spoke, her pale, pinched face reflected an intensity of hatred that spoke of deeply felt injustices. She blamed him for her current lot in life, having been used most cruelly by the Austrian. We discovered just how cruelly when she turned her back to us and began unbuttoning her dress.
"I won't say pardon, as it's the best way to show you what kind of man Adelbert Gruner is."
She pulled the dress off her shoulder far enough for us to have a glimpse of the ruin that was left of her back.
"I've heard a bit about you, Mr. Holmes, and I reckon you've seen better and worse. Your doctor friend might know what did it."
"Vitriol, I would say." Applied repeatedly. I was shaken. Even from that distance, I could see layers of scars, criss-crossed striations, new wounds applied over old ones. I could not begin to imagine the horrors the poor girl must have endured. I had known Gruner was a murderer, but I had never learned the circumstances of his wife's death. I could only hope, for her sake, it was kinder than what was done to Kitty Winter.
"That's it." She shrugged her dress back on. "He's fond of the games, he is. I am too, for what it's worth. But it's not just games to him, that's the rub. You've got to see him when he's that far gone. It's like looking into the pits of hell. That lot out there's all for fun, that's all right." She jerked her head back toward the main club room. "A bit of a slap and a tickle never hurt no one. But let one like him get an omega under his hand, and there's no telling what he'll do. He doesn't care as long as it makes them scream. It's what saved me in the end. I knew how to scream."
She offered to go to Violet de Merville and share with her what she had with us, but Gruner's fiancée was so inured to tales of his past wrongdoings it was doubtful even that would sway her.
"My Lord, she must have a nerve!" Miss Winter exclaimed. "But I'll lay there's one thing that might shake her." She went on to tell us about a "beastly book" which Baron Gruner kept, a gruesome catalog of horrors including photographs, names, details, everything about each of his victims. He kept it well hidden and guarded, and she was doubtful we would be able to lay hand on it. But it was our only lead.
Holmes agreed to take her along to see Miss de Merville next evening, in case the vivid evidence of what lay ahead for her should she throw her lot in with Gruner would cause her to see reason. She then left the two of us to "come down" as she had put it, and returned to her duties.
"I apologize for getting carried away," Holmes murmured once we were alone, carefully wiping some excess ointment from my side.
"Not at all," I assured him. "It was a most informative exercise." I watched as he put the finishing touches on the last bandage. The silence between us was thick. I did not know how to say that I had been quite as carried away as he. That I wished we had both been carried even further. To the furthest reaches of what was possible. "I might not have minded continuing it." The words dropped awkwardly into the space between us. Privately, I meant to say. In a safe place, away from prying eyes and judgmental minds.
"It was clearly for the best that you stopped it when you did." Holmes' hand lingered on my side, warm and solid. He let his thumb caress the edge of the bandage, a wholly unnecessary gesture but one that I welcomed more than was good for either of us.
It was really in that moment, I believe, that I understood what I wanted from him, and for us. What I wanted to give to him, and share with him. It was what we already shared: a life. What we already had shared in the past: a home. There had always been just one element missing from what was between us; although it was never missed. I had never considered it to be something that would ever be part of our friendship. It was not necessary. But tonight I had seen that it might be good. It could be the final element that we shared, something that we gave to each other.
Tonight for the first time I saw Holmes enjoying his physicality, taking pleasure in his own body and in someone else's. I should modestly like to think in large part (wholly, really) it was because I was the one there with him. Because he enjoyed doing those things to me, and for me, and seeing my body respond the way it did, seeing the affection in my eyes and the devotion on my face. I wanted to make his body respond that way too. I wanted to let him know how extraordinary he was.
He was no ordinary man, and the ordinary cares of an ordinary life were never enough to hold his interest. He needed master minds, criminal geniuses, and archnemeses to match wits with and stimulate his massive intellect. It only stood to reason that he would need extraordinary measures to stimulate his body as well. The cocaine and morphine were surely one attempt to do just that, to get his heart racing and his blood pumping the way mine - and, I believed, his - had tonight. "The games", as Miss Winter called them, could be another. And it turned out we both responded favorably to them, or at least to some of the practices. We could try other ones. Now that I had an idea of it all, I wanted to give him the chance to be on the receiving end, if he was still interested. I wanted to do all of that for him, and more.
But I did not say any of that. How could I? It was all too fresh, the emotions and impressions too new and immature. All of that swirled through my mind in an instant, a vague and unformed mass of unconnected points. It would take them several days to coalesce into actionable ideas and plans.
Instead, stupidly, I said, "I was thinking only of practical concerns. If anyone had found out we are both alphas..."
"Quite." Holmes let go of me, leaving me with only the ghost of his fingers on my skin. "Well, I believe you'll live, Watson." He stood up and wiped his hands on a towel.
~~.~~.~~
The next two or three days, I was stiff and sore, which was only to be expected. What I did not expect was the relish with which I luxuriated in each twinge and ache. My every movement reminded me of our actions at the Inferno Club. I reached for my teacup and felt the echo of ropes in the way the sleeve of my dressing gown pulled against my arm. I rolled over in bed and then did it again just to feel the bloom of soreness all along my sides. Every swing of my arm as I walked down the street shot sparks into my armpits, adding a smug spring to my step.
The first morning, I even forewent replacing the bandages which Holmes had tenderly applied, in order that I might carry his handiwork with me a few hours longer. When I did remove them, it was to the realization that the more important and artful handiwork was underneath. I spent long minutes in the morning and evening examining the patterns of tiny cuts and bruises that mottled my sides and arms. I wanted to share them with Holmes, to show him how he had left his marks on me, but it seemed too intimate and tender a subject to broach, especially in light of the cordial manner we had parted that night, each of us returning to our own abode with no more than a light handshake.
At night, I thrust my hand under my nightshirt as I lay in bed in the dark, running my fingers over the fine network of scabs that decorated my skin like a star-speckled sky. It was not a distant leap from there to re-visit the sites that Holmes had touched with the chestnut husk: my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my nipples. I scratched at them with my nail, in imitation of the piquant stimulation they had endured under Holmes' ministrations. I was able to induce a state of attention, but it was a poor relation of the fiery tempest that had begun to build under Holmes' hands, only to dissipate before its powerful surge could overpower me.
We spoke of none of this, of course, despite meeting over dinner the subsequent evening so that I might keep abreast of developments in Miss de Merville's case. Kitty Winter's visit to her in Holmes' company was a disaster very nearly ending in a cat fight, with Holmes having to bodily drag the hostess from "Hell" out to the waiting cab.
He had either foregone his omega perfume for the visit or washed quite thoroughly before coming back out, as I could not detect a trace of it this time. His smoky alpha scent was so welcome and appealing that I found myself drawing my chair in and leaning quite blatantly over the table in order to get closer to its source. It did not excite my sensibilities the way a ripe omega's scent might, but I imagined it would be quite satisfactory to get my nose pressed right up against the bonding ridge at the base of his neck whilst he dragged his fingers over my back and sides, probing my bruises and pressing his thumbs into the hollows of my reddened armpits.
I was glad to have confirmation that my reactions at the club and the insights which derived from them were not a product of false chemistry. It was Holmes himself who captured my attention and toward whose pole my compass was aligned. My interest was not heightened when he presented himself as an omega. On the contrary, I was disturbed and had the impulse to restore his natural state, the way a mother cat will lick her kittens until they are very nearly raw if they chance to get another scent on them. In other words, Holmes' gender was not immaterial in the equation; it was his very alphahood that made him notable. I knew that this made me a criminal in the eyes of the law, even if my interest were localized to a single person. But my inclinations and affections had been present for so long - albeit unacknowledged - that I was not greatly troubled by the realization. It did not demand a shift in my perception of myself, but rather an acceptance of what had been there all along.
I was not ready to lay myself bare before him so soon, however, even if only in a figurative sense this time. I did not want to distract his concentration from the very serious matter of the unfortunate Miss de Merville. There was another consideration as well, namely that he never made a single mention of our visit to the Inferno Club himself. I was not too put off by this; I knew he was a private person and often found discussions of a personal nature distasteful, or pooh-poohed matters of the heart as frivolous. His actions in the "games room" and afterward, when he paid me so patient attention, spoke louder to me than his current silence. He might simply have set those things aside for the time being, for the sake of his client. Or he might be working through his own confusion at what had passed between us. I would not press the issue, as there was no urgency in its resolution. I decided to let the matter rest for several days or longer, at least until the conclusion of the current case.
One may imagine the pang of horror which passed through my very soul, then, when my eyes fell upon the headline proclaiming a vicious attack upon my most dear one not two days hence. I will refrain from repeating a description of my frantic journey to his bedside and the quite serious injuries which he had sustained.
The surgeon who had attended him in the immediate aftermath of the assault prescribed that he remain confined to his rooms for the duration of his convalescence, or until he was fit to resume his usual activities, and I concurred. As this coincided nicely with Holmes' scheme to lull Gruner into a false sense of security by misleading him into the belief that Holmes lay at death's door, we received no complaint.
Mrs. Hudson was good enough to air out my old room and allow me to bring over the few items I would need for a stay of several days. The poor woman had never found another lodger willing to put up with the noisome vapors and alarming sounds emanating from the main flat, to say nothing of the steady stream of visitors at all hours who found their way to Holmes' door. She would never admit it, but I knew she was too fond of Holmes to turn him out despite all of the disadvantages to allowing him a spot in her home. I confess I suffered from a similar weakness.
Said scourge of landladies and doctors spent much of the first two or three days reclining in bed or lounging on his couch, poring voraciously over the newspapers and circulars he sent me out to fetch twice a day. By that time, however, a nervous boredom began to set in, and I caught him more than once gazing longingly at the case containing his needles. Against my better judgment, I allowed him to smoke as many cigarettes as he wished in order to dull the craving I knew he felt for stimulation, until my own head began to spin in the thick, heavy air.
The third night, it seemed Holmes had reached his limit for inactivity. He prowled around the sitting room long past midnight, his eyes wild and his hands fluttering from his throat to his unwashed hair to his dry, chapped lips, muttering things that I half suspected to be the ravings of a madman. It was then that a notion began to germinate. In truth, it had been sown much earlier, but now it took root and gave me the first real glimpse of its young, green shoots. The soil was yet rocky, and I did not know whether the season was right, but I believed with a bit of attention, it would yet provide a fruitful harvest. All I needed were the appropriate tools.
Next morning, while on my usual errands to procure tobacco and the latest broadsheets, I sent a note to Kitty Winter, not knowing anyone else other than Shinwell Johnson whom I might approach in such a delicate matter, and I would be damned to seek him out for guidance.
I requested that any reply be directed to my practice, and it was thence that I hastened on my evening round. I was rewarded with a brief yet succinct letter which provided me everything I had asked for. I packed up a couple items from the surgery, and a quick detour to Fortnum's on my way back saw me equipped with everything I might need.
When I arrived at Baker Street, I went directly up to my room (for so I considered it again already) to deposit my parcels before re-joining Holmes. His mood had deteriorated, and I entered to a barrage of reprimands for my tardiness. I made some excuse or other, but he was not to be mollified, and continued to sulk through the excellent dinner Mrs. Hudson prepared for us. The good woman had gone out of her way all week to tempt Holmes' fussy palate with delicate morsels and hearty dishes designed to hasten his return to full health. That night, he deigned to eat no more than a few spoonfuls of the rich consommé and did little more than pick at his roast.
When he disappeared into his room, I thought he might have decided to turn in for the night and there would be no need for the distractions I had planned after all. I was glad if he was able to succumb to some much-needed slumber, although I was uncertain if I would have the nerve to follow through on my preparations another time, should they be postponed tonight. So it was that my heart leapt with both anticipation and no small amount of nervous agitation when Holmes re-emerged, bearing his beloved violin and bow along with a thunderous scowl beneath the white bandage which still adorned his head.
He made a few attempts at playing a tune, pausing from time to time to curse the stiffness in his swollen and bruised knuckles. Even with my dull ear I could tell the execution was unsatisfactory, and Holmes' displeasure and frustration grew with each scratch of the bow over the strings. It seemed I would have my chance after all. I went up to my room to fetch the goods.
Go to Part 3
