The Grey Light of Morning by Clonesgirl
The technical stuff:
RATING: NC-17 for the sex
PAIRING: Holmes/Watson
WORD COUNT: Just over 3,300
WARNINGS: Slash - now you all know what that is.
SPOILERS: None
ARCHIVE: The Motley Collection
DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed strictly for fun, not profit. No offence intended.
BETAING: Not betaed. Apologies. If you spot any goofs please let me know.
FEEDBACK: Would be lovely.
NOTE: If you wish to link to this story it would be much appreciated if you could let the
author know.
* * *There are some events in life that you would prefer to forget, and there are some things that you never wish to forget. One of my most treasured memories is of the first time I told Sherlock Holmes that I loved him. It was four months ago now and, although, of course, I have expressed it many times since, the first time I ventured to say the irrevocable words that would forever seal my fate is a memory that I shall cherish to my grave.
It was not, as you might imagine, before a roaring fire on a cold night; nor with bodies entwined and my heart screaming out for me to tell him; nor was it afterward as we prepared for sleep. No, it was none of those. The first time I ventured to tell Sherlock Holmes of my love for him was in the pale dawn light of a wet and windy March morning in Baker Street when we had been lovers for a month.
I awoke at twenty-past seven, trying not to disturb Holmes as, of necessity, we had to sleep very close together in my small bed. I was lying on my side and he was pressed close to my back in spoon-fashion with his arm around my waist. His soft genitals rested against my buttocks and, where only a scant month ago I would have found the mere thought of such a situation profoundly disturbing, now I simply found it comforting for I knew with intimate knowledge what it was to feel his hard manhood deep within me, as indeed it had been only hours ago.
Then, as always, though my heart implored me to utter the words that would bind me to him forever - as if I was not already bound to him heart and soul - the words stuck in my throat, for I was paralysed by fear that one day he might leave me. Oh, not for a woman certainly as he distrusted their sex so mightily, nor I fancy for another man; but simply that he would leave, never to return. I feared that one day he would go off on a case without me and simply never return to Baker Street, and I would never know his ultimate fate.
As I lay there in bed beside Holmes I considered just what our ultimate fates might be. It is not given to us to know the future, and yet as I lay there in warmth and comfort listening to the rain beating against the windows I prayed that, whatever his fate may be, that I might share it, for I cannot bear the thought of existence without him. True, he is still impossible to live with on a regular basis, but the thought of living here in Baker Street without him is so distressing that I can not contemplate it even for a moment.
As I felt Holmes stir a little against me I reflected briefly on my life with him before we became lovers, and how pale and meaningless my existence was then. True, there was friendship and there was the excitement of solving his many cases, but now there is so much more.
Again he stirred and I felt his arm steal closer and his hand move higher to rest on my breast. He might not be fully awake yet but he was aware enough for the solace of touch and, as I have discovered in the last month, he does so love to touch, not that he would admit to it as yet.
I covered his hand with both of my own and pressed it to my heart and we lay for long moments in silence and stillness. Outside my bedroom windows the wind blew in gusts and in the wet street life was beginning to stir, but inside all was warmth and affection.
Again, words of love were on the tip of my tongue, words it seemed I had waited forever to speak. I whispered his name and his hand pressed me a little to show that he had heard. Dear God, but I wanted so much to say it, to tell him of my love, but I would not take the coward's way out. No, if I was going to say it, I would say it to his face.
I turned over to face him. His hair was dishevelled and covered his forehead and, like myself, he sported a day's growth of beard. He watched me through large, sleepy, grey eyes, smiling a little.
"Umm, good morning, Watson. And a dreary, wet one it is too."
"Good morning, Holmes. Indeed it is."
He looked at me curiously. "What troubles you, Watson?" he inquired solicitously.
"Why nothing," I denied, rather too hastily.
He simply looked at me with his all-seeing eyes and began to stroke my hair. "Then tell me," he murmured, "what it can be that has furrowed your brow so early in the day."
"Oh, Holmes!" I whispered in anguish, fearing and yet wanting so much to tell him of my love.
He looked concerned. "Watson? My dear boy, what is it that troubles you so?"
It was too much. I murmured his name and buried my face in his warm neck while he held me.
"Am I, Holmes?" I asked tentatively. I pulled back to look into his expressive grey eyes. "Am I... your boy?"
He gazed on me most studiously. "You are and always will be your own man, John H. Watson, but, to me, you are, and will always be, my own dear Watson." I nodded. "However, I believe that there is something that you wish to impart to me."
My whole being ached with longing now and so loud did my heart beat that I was sure he must hear it. Gazing deeply into his large eyes, I was lost, and knew it. There was nothing I could do except surrender with dignity.
"Only that I love you, Sherlock Holmes," I whispered.
There. I had said it and, once said, the words could never be taken back.
To my astonishment, his features softened. He swallowed hard and in the dim light his grey eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Abruptly, he pulled me close, clasping me to his breast as though never to let me go.
"Oh, my dear, dear fellow!" he murmured, crushing me to him. "My Watson! My own dear Watson!" he murmured. "Say it again."
I looked at him in mild perplexity for surely he had understood my words. My heart was racing and at least he seemed to understand my distress at revealing so much of my inner feelings.
"Calm yourself, dear boy," he whispered softly in my ear, while his hands drew soothing patterns on my back, "and tell me again of your feelings, for I can scarce believe my own ears."
I touched his lightly stubbled cheek with my fingers and offered him my heart. "I love you, Holmes."
He closed his eyes and smiled. "Say it again."
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes, as you are, for what you are."
"Again!" he demanded, once more gazing on me as though seeing into my very soul.
"I love you with all my heart, Sherlock Holmes, and I have longed to say it, to tell you of my love. You know of my admiration and respect for you, my dear one, but I also wish you to know that I cherish you above all others and, if you wish it, I will always stay with you."
There was a look of utter disbelief on his long, thin features. "If I wish it? Oh, Watson, Watson, of course I wish it, my dear! Did you imagine me unfeeling? Did you think me uncaring? My dear fellow, if I occasionally trample on your feelings, it is not out of deliberate malice on my part; it is simply that I have lived a solitary existence and am unused to sharing. Perhaps I should say unused to loving, as it were, for I do..." he swallowed hard, "...love you, John, most dearly."
He paused and took a deep breath. "This is difficult for me to say, and I will probably never say it as often as you would wish, but please know in your heart that I feel it and, perhaps in time, I will grow accustomed to expressing my feelings more openly." He closed his eyes for a long moment. "I would be lost without you, my dear one. Is that enough?" he asked, his voice betraying his apprehension.
In that singular moment he was braver and more courageous than any man has a right to be, and so few are. With a day's growth of beard and his hair falling wildly in his eyes he was charming, boyish and quite the dearest sight that I had ever seen.
"Oh, more than, my dearest Holmes! More than enough!"
In gratitude I covered his soft lips with my own and hugged him, kissing him most tenderly, then with sweet and intentional abandon as he plundered my mouth with his tongue and his hands wandered slowly and deliberately, roaming over my body at will. He touched me in all the secret ways that he knew I relished for my dear Holmes and I had learned much of each other in the last month and I had completely lost all semblance of reticence, as had he.
"How easily you are aroused, dear heart," he murmured while cradling my balls in his long fingers and caressing my standing manhood with his other hand.
How sweet it was to hear such an intimate endearment fall from his lips. I could not recall him ever addressing me in that way before and I began to realise that he, too, had been withholding expressions of affection. How ironic! I vowed then and there never to withhold expressions of my own ardour.
He did not seem to want me to reciprocate, so I lay there and abandoned myself to the pleasure of his fervent touch, allowing him to do as he pleased with hands and mouth that worshipped me in intense concentration. Where words might fail him, he was more than capable of expressing his feelings through touch, and this he did now; loving me with every precise stroke of his long slender fingers, while his delicate lips and sensitive tongue sucked on my nipples until I was as a wild thing, goaded to wilful and fiery lust. Ultimately, he took my yearning member in his mouth and, with complete concentration, adored me with such gentleness and care as a man could ever wish for.
"Tell me what you feel," he murmured, licking my length from base to tip.
"Oh, Holmes, Holmes, that's wonderful! Yes! Like that, my sweet!" I groaned, running my fingers through the soft, unruly waves of his hair.
"Tell me more," he murmured, continuing his delicious assault. "Much more! Say it!"
"Oh, yes, dear one, yes!" I groaned. "Oh, God!"
"Tell me you love me!" he demanded, cherishing me with lips and tongue and sucking on the tip.
"Oh, yes! Love you so much, my Holmes, so much! Can you not feel it? You must feel it, my sweet, you must! It will surely burst from me! Oh, feel it, my dear one! See what you do to me!" I sobbed.
"More!" he demanded, taking me deeply into his mouth and sucking voraciously.
"Oh, Lord, it explodes in me! Yes! Oh, yes! Drink it! Yes! Oh, God! Drink of my love, my darling Holmes, and know that I will always love you."
My release coiled like fire up my spine and I seemed to come forever in his sweet mouth, while he not only accepted all of it, but demanded more and still more; drinking of me with whole-hearted ardour while I poured heart and soul into him.
Afterward I lay spent with the sheer force of my release, my body shuddering slightly with the pounding of my heart. I felt both naked and vulnerable from the powerful physical and emotional release, but my dear one understood my momentary weakness and took me into his arms, covering us both with the bedclothes and cradling me gently; calming me as he would a frightened horse and petting me with long, firm strokes of his beautiful hands.
I lay there totally absorbed in sensation; the feel of his body against mine, his scent, his warmth, his respiration and the feeling of his wiry arms surrounding me.
After a while he murmured, "Never be afraid to tell me of your love, my dearest John, for you are more than precious to me." I opened my eyes to gaze into his warm, grey ones and stroked his neck and shoulders. "Dear heart, you quench the thirst of a lifetime."
Overwhelmed by the power of his words I whispered, "You must know that I adore you, my dearest Holmes."
"Oh, Watson!" His answering smile truly lit up my small bedroom and the hug he gave me was enough to crack my ribs as he kissed me with an affection so great that there could never be any doubt in my mind as to his true feelings for me.
The hour was still early and the rain was still beating against the windows and running down them in rivulets as I returned his kiss with much enthusiasm.
Content to simply be with each other we drifted and eventually dozed off to the accompaniment of the inhospitable elements. However, there was one other thing that happened on that remarkable morning. As we drifted in each other's arms, a most vivid image came to my mind. It is difficult, but I will try to describe my perceptions of it.
I seemed to be in the midst of a very bleak landscape, dark and drab and cold. As I gazed about I perceived a short distance away a tall figure draped in a long black cape. It seemed to be very much alone, and I went toward it, somehow knowing that it was lonely. The figure was turned away from me but I walked around until I could see its face.
It was Holmes. His eyes were closed in self-absorption, his arms crossed over his chest, his hands protectively covering the area over his heart. He wore nothing beneath the black cape but it was as though his pale flesh seemed to glow lightly from within.
I held out my hands to him and as I did so, I realised that I was holding a very large rose. It was truly the most exquisite and remarkable rose that I have ever seen and its heady perfume seemed to fill my whole being with sweetness. Its petals were of a golden peach and it appeared to have no thorns whatsoever.
I spoke his name softly. His eyes slowly opened and he looked at me uncertainly, as though doubting whether he should trust me. I continued to hold out the rose to him, but still he hesitated to take it, his face now betraying apprehension, even fear. He gazed deeply into my eyes, and it was as though he could see my love for him there. Finally, he made the decision to trust.
Slowly, he uncrossed his arms, symbolically uncovering his guarded heart. Instead of taking the rose from me he simply cupped my hands with his own ice-cold ones and together we held the rose between us, inhaling its singularly lovely fragrance.
There followed a remarkable transformation. As we both held the rose, it changed colour from the lovely peach to the most exquisite deep pink that I have ever seen and, as I stood there in that timeless place with my dearest Holmes, I felt nothing but utter, complete and boundless love that filled my being and expanded beyond me to encompass my dear one.
As I continued to gaze on my dear one I saw his features transformed entirely from his normally detached and sardonic manner until they seemed to glow with the power of his love - love of his work, love for life and, far surpassing all these, love for me. His outer beauty was exquisite; his inner beauty shone from his exquisite eyes. His ice-cold hands warmed as our fingers entwined and I could only feel infinite gratitude that this pure and untainted soul had chosen me to love.
Still in the grip of the dream I murmured, "Oh, Holmes, thank you for the gift of your heart. I shall treasure it always."
"And I yours, my dearest John," he whispered.
It was then that I came to my senses and Holmes wakened also. My head was on his shoulder and I pulled back so that I could see his face. His gaze was one of wonder, as it had been in the dream, and he reached out to stroke along my cheek and jaw, then let his finger roam over my lips as I kissed it.
"I dreamt that you gave me the most exquisitely lovely rose," he whispered.
It was my turn to stare as I looked upon him in considerable shock. "And I dreamt that you accepted it!"
He smiled at me and embraced me and we lay there silently remembering our seemingly shared dream and pondering the meaning of it.
I will never forget that morning. However, as things turned out it was not to be the last such dream that my dear Holmes and I shared. In the three months since that memorable morning we have shared several more of these delightful experiences. They have changed considerably since that first one; they are now more elaborate, more colourful, more detailed and we now recall them ever more clearly.
Each time that we have shared a dream Holmes begs that I will record my perceptions of it, and in a separate journal kept hidden in my bedroom I record all that I can remember. He will then read it, add his own observations and later we compare notes. The symbolic language of dreams would seem to be an entirely different method of communication and we are sometimes baffled by the images we have encountered in our dream world, however, I feel certain that we will come to understand our dreams better in the fullness of time.
I have also heard that there is a young doctor in Vienna who is conducting scientific research on the subject of dreams and I am keen to read the results of his studies.
As for the emotions expressed in our dreams, they seem to reflect our true feelings for one another, and what we cannot always express satisfactorily in words is reflected powerfully there in our dreams where our hearts lie open and yearning and we are free to express ourselves in the most delightful of ways.
Like myself, Sherlock Holmes is also a man of deep emotions which he often finds difficult to express - in his case, perhaps because he has hidden them for so long - and there will always be times when he is so totally absorbed by his current case that he seems to disregard my own feelings entirely. However, this is of no consequence as the case will soon be over and I will be there for him, to share his life, his love and his dreams.
So I care not if I we awaken to bitter winds and the constant patter of rain lashing our windows, for we have so much to share now - more even than Holmes's cases, as engrossing as they frequently are - that our lives are enriched beyond my wildest imaginings, for I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, is content to be here in my arms.
* * * *** * * *
