Always A Watson

Chapter Five

July 1907

'Have you heard?'

Two maids were chatting over a pile of washing. They were young, he had only seen the a few times before since they were part of a new crop that had come from the town, but they were sweet and amiable and John like them. It happened often, maids would grow, become engaged get married and new ones would take their place. There seemed a constant group of young women ready for service. His heart gave a brief throb at the memories of Polly and Annie.

John's ears twitched at the hushed words that filled the corner. John was quite used to the maids gossiping about all sorts and usually it was of no interest to him at all. Who was in love with who, who was angry, who had reasons to be cheerful, who disliked their treatment and other such trifles.

'If this is about the Ashby's I don't want to know. I am sick and tired of hearing about Lord Ashby this and Lord Ashby that, completely sick'

Ashby was and old friend of Lord Holmes who had spent the past decade in India with his wife and son. That was all John had found out from Sherlock who seemed so utterly bored by any mention of the name. They were to come to Sherringford in a matter of days and the whole house was buzzing with excitement over the prospective visitors. John had never seen Patty quite so stressed, she was insisting on making enough food to feed an entire army. Patty was a fantastic cook and John knew the Ashby's would be very impressed with her creations. If she didn't die of overwork before they had a chance to taste anything.

'Oh no, nothing like that. Do you know the post master? Mr Appleby? Was arrested this morning apparently.'

A sharp pang in his stomach and suddenly his insides were in knots. Mr Appleby owned the local post office in the village, John had spent many an hour there with Sherlock picking out toffees and sweets. He always gave them extra, he always smiled at them and called them his best customers. He helped fix John's bike when it had broken and didn't mind getting oil all over his hands. The small, wire framed glasses were permanent fixture on his face as was his toothy grin. He was such a kind man, a gentle man, he was not a criminal. What an earth could he have done to warrant such a fate? Would he be hanged? Oh no please not. John felt quite sick at the idea of a man he considered a good friend rotting at the end of a rope.

'Really? What for? He was always so good to me, bought some stamps from him only last week and didn't mind I was a tuppence short, said to pay him back the next time and that was that'

'Apparently he is one of those' the maid replied to her friend sternly, as if any mention of the man was making her skin crawl. 'He tried to kiss Mrs Derby's son and they arrested him for gross indecency or sodomy or something like that.'

What? Mr Appleby tried to kiss a man? A haze of confusion descended upon him. John could not make sense of it, did they kiss like he used to kiss Sherlock when they were children? Why exactly was that wrong? Maybe Mr Appleby just wanted to comfort the man?

'Really?'

'Yeah, homosexuality they called it, something about men falling in love with each other.'

'How absurd. Something is obviously not right in his head if he thinks in such a way.'

'Well, I was talking to Lottie and she said its something to do with the mind. Said they will cart Mr Appleby off to the loony bin, much kinder then jail but Lottie has always been soft.'

John had never realised that men could love each other like a man and a women did. He had never heard the term homosexual or sodomy. He didn't know why it was wrong, he did not really know what it was.

John left his breakfast and went looking for Sherlock. He needed the other boys presence right now. He needed to tell him what had happened. Sherlock like Mr Appleby to. Sherlock would know he was innocent of any wrong doing.

'Hello, John'

The great hall was filled with the July sun that was just starting to peep out over the clouds. As he entered he was immediately greeted by the sight of a young man holding a large bouquet of flowers.

'Oh, hello Rupert.'

He had seen Rupert many times before, with his dark hair and intense expression. His cap firmly in hand he smiled awkwardly at John. The flowers were a mixture of white, blue and purple petals with long, green stems. John thought them quite beautiful.

'Is Lady Harriet here?'

'No. She is at the village hall, something about a conservative rally. I think they are trying regain support after that terrible election they had.'

'I've been trying to run into her for days. I fear she is avoiding me' he frowned 'Well, can you give her these?'

John nodded awkwardly and took the flowers, trying not to show the pity he had for Rupert on his face.

'I asked her to marry me, do you think she will say yes?' Rupert asked, looking completely dejected.

'I am sure she will give you her answer soon.'

He felt so sorry for Rupert. Harriet certainly had her fair share of admirers. Many men in the village were after her, imagining her as their wife. Daughter of a lord, she was a fine catch. Rupert did not reply, instead he walked out the door and down the road, walking back towards the town with his shoulders slouched and his hands shoved into his pockets.

'Oh, what pretty flowers.' A maid squealed behind him.

'Take them, please. They will be thrown away otherwise'

John hoped the flowers would liven up the drab servants quarters. It was a popular spot for Sherlock and himself to play in while they were children and John had always thought them rather bleak.

'Has he gone?' Harriet appeared in the hallway carrying a brown package. Her hair in ringlets, styled to perfection above her dress. She wrinkled up her nose in disgust as she stared at the doorway Rupert had left from.

'I told him you were away.'

'Thank goodness, he keeps following me around like an utter sheep! I can't lose him. You know Clara dared me to kiss him? I did, he had a bag of those chocolates I like and I said I would give him a kiss for them, now he seems to think we are to be wed!'

John tried to hide his displeasure. Harriet was so beastly at times. The poor man had done no wrong but fall for such a viper.

'Rupert asked you to marry him, are you going to accept his proposal?'

Harriet laughed 'Oh no Rupert is an utter oaf! Do you have any idea how little he earns? And he wants to live in that ramshackle of a shack he lives in with that ghastly mother of his, what's more he is a liberal. As is I would marry him! The Ashby's will be coming in a matter of days. I think father his planning on me marrying Lord Ashby's son, Stephen. He is far more worthy of me.'

To emphasise her point she clicked her heels and stormed off down the hall into the drawing room. For a few moments John considered the thought that Rupert had had quite a lucky escape, but he did not voice this thought out loud.

He found Sherlock in his room, scribbling out a letter at a furious speed on the old writing desk. A newspaper scattered across, a bottle of ink rested by his arm and his hand was covered in dark black ink. Sherlock could never write very well when he was excited.

John sat on the edge of the bed and took the opportunity to study him. They were men now, Sherlock had shot up a few summers previous and it seemed like he never stopped. He was so tall now that John wondered if he continued to grow at such a rate he would soon touch the sky. John had not had such luck, he was self conscious over his smaller frame and knew he would grown no taller. However unlike Sherlock his body and decided to grow outwards, he was not rotund by any stretch of the imagination, but he was solid and compact. Sherlock was whippet thin, every ounce of fat from boyhood had left him. His cheeks were now the sharpest John had ever seen, he was gangly, often moving in an awkward lurch as he was so used to being much smaller. Their voices two had deepened, Sherlock's to an unimaginably low and smooth register. As dark and exotic as the shag tobacco Jenkins smoked.

One thing John did hold over Sherlock was he had started to grow facial hair. He had seen Sherlock's reflection through the looking glass when he shaved every morning, his expression a mixture of awe and envy. Sherlock's face was still like a child's.

He liked to admire Sherlock's beauty. The way his eyes flickered over the paper, still that curious shade and still so alive. His long fingers holding the pen, teeth biting on the red lip as he wrote.

'You are not writing to Scotland Yard again, are you?' John laughed. Sherlock had become utterly obsessed with crime. Every day he was scouring the papers, hoping for some salacious report of murder or intrigue. He was convinced he could solve them. John did not know why the police would listen to a sixteen year old boy but this did not deter his friend.

'Mr Parsons was murdered, I know it. They need to listen to me'

Sherlock turned, finally glancing in Johns direction and scouring his eyes over him. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up in the way it always did when he was at the centre of Sherlock's attentions.

'You mended your shirt again, its been washed but it's far too starchy and stiff for you. You would ask for them to press it differently but you feel you can't complain, you do not wish to bother anyone. Rupert has been to see Harriet yet you sent him away, some trifle nonsense or other about her being out, you feel for him and you don't want to upset him so you lied about her whereabouts'

John could do nothing but grin as he was quite used to this by now. Sherlock called it deduction, John thought he was just plucking things out of thin air, well, he would do if Sherlock was ever wrong. He was right of course, he was always right.

'Go on, tell me how you did it this time.'

'Black stitching around the cuff but your shirt is white, therefore you used some spare black thread to mend it. The skin around your collar is red. The shirt has been rubbing meaning too much starch. I often see you with marks like this so I know it's something you suffer from repeatedly. I also know you and you will rarely cause a fuss so its something you choose to live with.'

'And Rupert?'

'Simple. As you know my room faces out onto the main entrance. I saw Rupert approach with a large bunch of flowers, obviously intended for Harriet. Now here you are with a loose petal on your trouser leg, not a difficult leap.'

'How did you know I lied?'

'A tad more difficult. I know you like Rupert, you didn't want him to go through the pain of having her refuse him. So you lied.'

'He loves her. How can she treat him like this' John frowned. Rupert was a good man, he hated seeing him spurned like this, especially by his own sister.

'Love does not exist, it is just used as a distraction. I have no idea why people feel the need to fill their heads with such fanciful rubbish. He will soon find someone else and Harriet will be a distant memory'

John was troubled by this. Sherlock often described his body as purely for transport. He rarely ate, rarely slept as he said it slowed down his mind, yet he had never said love was something he ignored to.

'Mr Appleby was arrested.' John blurted out, unable to keep it in any longer.

'Yes, I heard.' Sherlock said rather dismissively, turning back to his letter and dipping the pen into the ink.

'You mean it is possible for two men to love each other in such a way?'

Sherlock shook his head 'Its a sin apparently, he who lies with another man shall be dammed for all eternity. Homosexuality is against the law John, I thought you knew that?'

John found himself unable to reply. Instead he sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, lost in his thoughts as Sherlock wrote. He felt rather embarrassed for not knowing there was such a thing. It was all rather ridiculous, men did not love men as they did women, yet he could find himself sicked by such a law. He did not know why he was so bothered by it, it was against the law after all so therefore it must be wrong, but he felt that poor Mr Appleby and been dealt and injustice. Still, he doubted he would ever have to worry about such things, luckily for him Patty was constantly talking about him meeting a nice young girl and getting married. John could not think of any other reason why this would not happen, after all its what people did. He would meet someone called Emily or Rose or Mary and he would be quite happy.

Years ago he once told Lady Holmes, or Miss Collins as she was known back then, that one day he would marry Sherlock. It was a silly childhood memory, he had never told Sherlock he had made such a decision and yet it was such a warm memory he would never forget it. It made him wonder what type of girl Sherlock would marry, he didn't think that was possible, no one would be able to stick him.

He thought once again of Rupert. They were the same age and yet John had never bought a girl flowers. He had never found a girl attractive, pretty yes, beautiful certainly, but never in a way that made him want to kiss them or hold their hand. Joseph had once told him about this thing called sex people have, apparently it was quite enjoyable but it made John feel queasy. The thought of seeing a girl naked, any girl, touching her and putting his penis inside her was repellent.

'Ellis has the day off, we don't have to have one of his awful lessons.' Sherlock said, interrupting his chain of thought.

'Yes, its going to be such a nice day. Far too nice to be cooped up indoors.'

'Care to help me? I want to conduct an experiment.'

'All right then, what do you wish me to do?'

John nodded solemnly. It sounded like a great idea, whenever he felt like he could not make sense of anything he had to leave the house, get out under a wide open sky and feel the fresh air. It made everything so much better and he could always think far more clearly on his return. He wanted to get what happened to Mr Appleby out of his head. All he wanted to do was to relax, breathe and not find himself so troubled over such worrisome thoughts.

'I want to re-enact a murder, care to be my victim?

This is how John found himself, a few hours later and covered in mud. They had had the most wonderful time. The murder seemed to consist of John casually walking through a clearing of woodland, only to be shot through the heart by a strange man and his body dragged off into the undergrowth. Sherlock kept using words like motive and trajectory, but John could not make head nor tail of what the hell was happening. Still, he he had not laughed quite so hard for days.

'John, please do not giggle, this is a crime scene!' Sherlock has reprimanded him yet was smiling to, in a way that lit up his entire face with a sort of glowing amusement.

'goodness gracious what the hell happened to you' Patty exclaimed when they arrived back to Sherringford.

'I was a dead body, Sherlock shot me then I had to lie very still. He pretended to be a murderer' John tried to explain as Patty scrubbed away at his cheek with a wet cloth. She barked at some maids to get the tin bath ready, but John was too busy laughing at the twigs caught in Sherlock's hair.

'I thought you two were far too old for games.' Patty tutted.

'It was not a game! I have proven my hypothesis that the culprit shot the wrong man. It's the only possible explanation. I must write to Scotland Yard at once.' Sherlock insisted.

'Not before you have a wash you don't. You better not play in the woods while the Ashby's are here.'

'It was a serious experiment, we were not playing' Sherlock replied haughtily.

The tin bath was in the back room behind the kitchen. They were far too old to need supervision so once it was ready and soap and towels were found Sherlock and John were left in peace to wash themselves and look presentable for dinner.

'You were most helpful John, I say if the police do not listen to me this time they are even bigger idiots then I first thought.

John's mouth went completely and utterly dry as Sherlock removed his jacket and waistcoat.

'What are you waiting for?' Sherlock mocked lightly, nodding at John's fully dressed body.

'Yes, of course', nearly jumping out of his skin. He tugged at the buttons but found he was quite unable to think clearly. All the could do was stare as his friend removed his clothes.

Sherlock was still as pale as ever, rake thin and towering above him. He seemed completely oblivious to John's distress, humming to himself as he removed layer after layer until he stood completely bare.

Something new and incredibly frightening came across John as he looked at Sherlock's naked form. He was utterly perfect in a way John could never have imagined. He looked like he had been carved out of moonlight. There was the same patch of dark, course, black hair around his genitals but his manhood was quite different. Longer and thinner with a pale shaft and reddish tip. John tried to hide his stares. He felt dizzy and sick and for the first time in his life he wanted to put space between them. He had seen Sherlock naked so many times as a boy but this felt so different. Sherlock had never caused such a reaction in him before, the shortness of breath, the feeling he was going to faint at any second. Sherlock had always been just Sherlock.

Sherlock turned so his back was facing John, walking across the hard tiles of the floor. As he climbed into the bath a few drops of water splashed quite nosily onto the floor, ignored by the young man who settled him self into the tub.

John pretended to be engrossed in undressing, really he was watching, transfixed with the sight in front of him. Every freckle, every mark on Sherlock's back, his backside, John wanted so desperately to reach out and touch it. They had shared baths before as young boys, but they were carelessly fun affairs, this felt that it would be the death of him, a giant weight was suddenly wrapping itself around his chest.

He stumbled forward, trying to mask his thoughts, worried that Sherlock would suddenly develop an ability to read his mind and be utterly revolted. What if Sherlock realised John wanted nothing more then to run his finger d own his chest and thighs? The thought didn't bear thinking about, he would lose everything.

When Joseph described the things one did during sex, John now realised he wanted to do them to Sherlock if only he had the right anatomy. If Sherlock was a girl he would bring him flowers and ask for his hand in marriage. That he wanted to take Sherlock and kiss him.

Though this was a strange realisation John felt no surprise at learning the true nature of his feelings. It had always been there, this yearning for Sherlock, this need to be close and to touch. It was as if someone had turned on a light inside his mind and everything was now illuminated. However the news of Mr Appleby caused a long, dark shadow on his thoughts.

The water was cold, which was a welcome relief considering the hot prickles running along his skin. It was cramped, barely enough room for two which made the situation far worse then John could ever imagine. Sherlock's naked form taunted him, the water wrapping itself around him, the soap he was using to wash himself with. Oh god it was going to make John explode any moment. The tin hard against his back. He pulled his legs up to his chest, trying to keep as much space between him and his desire.

'Are you all right? You looked rather flushed.'

'I am quite fine.' John lied.

Sherlock was beautiful, John had known that all his life and yet it felt as if he was looking at him for the very first time. Oh god what was happening to him?

The sudden thought of the arrest of Mr Appleby came into his mind. If he kissed Sherlock he would also succumb to the same fate. Is that what was to become of him? John felt his whole world turn upside down, pulled into a new and terrifying direction.

Sherlock would never look at John like this, he thought a body was simply a house for the mind and everything else was a distraction. Imagine if John suddenly asked to kiss him? He would be disgusted, he would telegram the police and they would arrest him just like Mr Appleby. It was a sin, such a terrible sin that John was committing, to sit naked in a bath with another man and to enjoy it!

He barely slept a wink that night, his dreams full of visions of jail, of judges sentencing him to be hung, of Sherlock sneering at him from the gallows. His mind conjuring up prisons full of rats and lice. He was worse then the thieves and murderers they housed, he was the very, very worse. Then lastly a dream of a woman with sandy blonde hair and pale blue eyes staring down at him from heaven, tears in her eyes.

'Forgive me mother. Please forgive me.'