Chapter XV
The Nature of the Beast
* Brent Tor on Dartmoor
Of all the cases that I worked on with my dear friend Sherlock Holmes the one that filled me with the most ominous sense of danger and foreboding - and to this day still sends a shiver of mortal dread up my spine - was that of the Baskerville hound. Although I have covered this case in detail for The Strand there was one incident of which, by its very nature, I was constrained to forego any mention. The incident happened on the lonely moor on the evening that I discovered Holmes's hideaway.
Having discovered the only occupied prehistoric stone hut but being uncertain of the identity of its current occupant I had settled down to wait inside the hut, revolver in hand. It was not until I heard a most familiar voice from without remark that it was a lovely evening and that I really would be more comfortable outside than in that I realised that I had truly found my beloved companion's hideaway.
When I heard that so-familiar voice, in an instant my heart leapt in my breast and the crushing weight of responsibility lifted from my shoulders.
"Holmes!" I cried, jumping to my feet. "Holmes!"
"Please be careful with your revolver," he warned, as I burst out of the entrance of the hut.
As Holmes stood to greet me I managed to put the safety back on with hands that shook with excitement. With utmost pleasure I drank in the longed-for sight of his lean features, sparkling, grey eyes and the smile that hovered about his lips. It occurred to me that, with his cleanliness and clean-shaven appearance, he might have been in Baker Street instead of living a harsh existence in a prehistoric stone hut in the lonely wilds of Dartmoor.
Holmes reached for my outstretched hands, clasping them hard and gripping them strongly as we gazed into each other's eyes, I with profound relief and he with utmost affection.
"My dearest Watson, what a lovely surprise! I had no idea that you had found my occasional retreat until I was within twenty paces of the door whence I came across your cigarette stub where you threw it just before you charged into the interior. Am I right?"
Smiling happily, I nodded.
"Excellent! And now perhaps we had better go inside after all, my dear. As desolate as this place is, there is no telling who may be watching."
Holmes led me inside the hut, and then his arms were about me and we were embracing, holding each other fiercely, as I called his name over and over, acknowledging how badly I had missed him.
"Oh, my dearest! My sweet John, I confess that I have been bereft without my companion, and I must also admit that without the warmth of your arms to hold me I am inclined to sleep badly."
"And I! Oh, my dear, dear Holmes!"
His greeting was so affectionate, his manner so welcoming that nothing could have kept me from kissing him; longingly, passionately, my heart hammering in my chest, my whole being surging toward him. However, when our tongues met and began to eagerly explore he stiffened against me and attempted to withdraw, protesting, "My dear, this is hardly the time or the place. There are things that we need to..." I silenced him by covering his sweet lips with my own once more and again plunging my tongue into his wet warmth to cravenly devour the wonderful, familiar taste that I had missed so very badly.
Expecting him to continue to protest and to firmly push me away, I gripped him hard but, to my surprise, instead of rejecting my ardour and immediately becoming all business, he gave a long, quavering moan of acceptance, acquiescing to my overpowering need - and his own. His wiry arms encircled me once more, his body once more pliant against my own as his eager lips covered my face in lovely, soft kisses.
Our actions were rash, even reckless in the extreme considering the circumstances, and yet as our burgeoning loins pushed and ground against each other through our clothing we knew that our eager bodies would not - could not - be denied. After more than a week apart our mutual desires were explicitly, painfully manifest. We were starving men, hungry not just for each other's company, but for the so-loved scent, taste, touch and feel of each other. Our desperate need could no more have been suppressed at that moment than a volcano could be prevented from erupting white-hot lava. Rational thought was gone. Denial, out of the question.
As we kissed, our hands were all over each other, stroking, pressing, touching all that was in reach. Holmes grasped my rear, causing my already-steel-hard member to push against his own even more and as he mouthed my throat he whispered, "Oh, my beloved Watson, I need you so!"
Groaning my consent, I nibbled the lobe of his ear, my fervour more than a match for his as he pulled me toward his makeshift bed.
We could not take the time and luxury of undressing so we merely removed our suit-coats, letting them fall where they might. Then we were kneeling on the dear, grey shawl and some blankets that Holmes had brought with him from Baker Street and once more kissing ravenously before lying down together.
As Holmes turned around to face my groin I undid his trousers. The sight of his dear member once more standing tall before my eyes galvanised me into action and I took it in gentle hands, yearning for it to fill my mouth with its riches. And so I worshipped it, loving it tenderly, feeling it throb with his pulse. I took this sweet part of him into my mouth as deeply as possible until it seemed to me that he must be halfway down my throat whilst fondling his swollen testicles, trying desperately to hang on for a few precious moments of delicious insanity.
We were mad for each other. We were the only two people in existence, totally oblivious to our surroundings, each the sole focus of the other's awareness. My lover's powerful sucking was driving me insane with need as, swiftly, we were engulfed by an all-powerful and ecstatic catharsis that sang through our nerves, fired our blood and flooded our mouths with a pungent and musky delight.
As I lay there panting a little in the aftermath my heart sang and I felt as though I had been liberated from the oppressive burden of duty that I had borne since coming to this lonely and desolate part of the country. My beloved Holmes was finally here in my arms and everything would be all right now. We would be able to solve this diabolic case and leave this dreary part of the country behind us once and for all.
My dear one bestowed a final kiss to the tip of my considerably-shrunken manhood and, with one last caress to my testicles, restored my disordered clothing to something resembling neatness as I did the same for him.
Afterwards we lay quietly for a short time, sharing the silence of the place, content simply to be together no matter the circumstances. We had no need of words as our gazes met and we shared a long, affectionate kiss.
It was at that moment that we simultaneously heard a sound from outside - and not just outside, but seemingly very close to our place of concealment. It was the kind of small snapping noise one makes when stepping on a twig.
As we lay there in the dimness, for a moment we were frozen with shock, each of us hideously aware of the possible consequences of our recklessness.
Holmes pressed his finger-tip to his mouth, commanding silence, before we quietly rose to gather our suit-coats from the floor where we had earlier carelessly discarded them in the heat of the moment. As we silently shouldered into them Holmes moved briskly to the hut entrance and peered out into the gloom, listening keenly. It was almost completely dark now. The moon had just risen but was temporarily obscured by a cloud bank on the eastern horizon. We drew our revolvers and Holmes nodded at me. Immediately, we burst out of the entrance, our gazes darting around seeking anything that moved in the silence and stillness about us. Swiftly, we checked the rear of the hut and were going to check the other huts nearby, for they provided the only concealment in the immediate vicinity when, abruptly, the moon came out, barely clear of the eastern horizon and bathing the moor in its cool, silvery glow. It was at that precise moment when the moon appeared that we saw the figure of a man clearly outlined against the moon's disk and moving rapidly away on high ground to the east.
The figure was unmistakable as it strode jauntily away and as I watched, numb with dread, the man tossed his hat into the air and leapt up to catch it in a gesture of triumph. The outline of the hat could clearly be seen - a straw boater - and I knew exactly where I had seen one before.
Together, Holmes and I watched silently as the figure swiftly retreated from our view and was lost in the gloom as the moon was once more obscured by cloud.
Transfixed by the horror of it, I hung my head in mortification, realising that the responsibility for this calamity lay fairly and squarely at my own feet. By coming here to Holmes's hiding place I had not only revealed his presence, but it now seemed that I had also inadvertently exposed the true nature of our relationship.
"Oh, Holmes, forgive me! I should never have come here. This was my fault and I..."
He immediately placed his hand on my shoulder. "Hush!. Come inside."
Holmes led me back inside the hut and lit a lamp. I still could not look at him, so great was my shame. To think that the world's greatest detective might be brought to his knees in humiliation and disgrace like poor Mr. Wilde because of my own rash impropriety was more than I could bear.
Holmes stood in front of me and grasped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"My dear, dear Watson, do not torture yourself. Whatever Stapleton heard or saw is of no consequence to us for the information will benefit him nothing."
"Holmes, how can you say that?" I protested. "He could blackmail you! Ruin you! And it's my fault! If I hadn't come here..."
"Shh, my love, and cease this useless breast-beating. Yes, we were indiscrete, but I will never allow a few precious moments of imprudence - and they were..." he ran a finger along my jaw, gazing into my eyes with utmost fondness, "...most precious - to destroy us. You know that I would never allow that happen."
"But, Holmes, it was I who precipitated our ardour. You wanted to stop..."
His hands grasped my shoulders. "Listen to me, John. I will never allow us to be parted, especially over such a trifle as this and..."
"A trifle?" I interrupted. "How can you possibly call this calamity a trifle?" I protested.
"Because it is. You are mine, Watson!" He shook me, hard. "Do you understand? You are my lawfully wedded partner and I give you my word - my word - that nothing and no one will ever come between us!"
This vehement utterance combined with the steadfast tone of my dear one's velvet voice with its intimation of utter, absolute control steadied me, thrilled me to the marrow. Gazing into his eyes in the lamplight, I endeavoured, without success, to forgive myself.
"And your word is sacred," I murmured.
He gave one of his small, sardonic smiles. "Of course! Besides, although my mind might have urged me to cease our amorous activities before the fires could consume us, this was one instance where it was overruled by my heart."
"Oh, Holmes!"
Though gratified to hear him admit that he had missed me as dearly, it seemed, as I had missed him, none the less this I felt that did not absolve me of my own culpability in the matter, and guilt was a ravenous beast, devouring me.
"Holmes, I understand what you're saying, but the fact remains that this debacle would not have happened had I not come here."
"Enough, Watson! You are my partner. You were conducting a legitimate investigation. If I had had my wits about me I should have foreseen the possibility that you would discover my hiding place." He smiled at me. "Besides," he added playfully, running one long, perfectly manicured finger down my cheek and smiling at me, "even supposing that I could have stopped, could you?"
His smile was infectious and I shook my head. "My desire for you was too great. Nothing could have stopped me," I admitted ruefully.
"Hah! Nothing could have stopped us, my dear! We are well matched, are we not? Do not worry, I shall deal with Mr. Stapleton and, come what may, believe me when I say that he poses no threat to us, you have my word."
The absolute conviction of his words caused so profound a relief that I grinned openly at him. "My dearest Holmes, only you could stare ruin in the face and yet be certain of victory."
"Mm, I am good at that, am I not?"
His smile was positively wicked and his complete audacity made me laugh aloud while he grinned at me in triumph. His conceit was part of his appeal and he knew it as I pulled him closer and kissed him in sheer delight as his playful fingers ruffled the hair at the nape of my neck.
Abruptly his manner changed and he was all business. "Come, my good Watson. Let us have a cigarette and compare notes on this very dark affair."
As we brought each other up-to-date on our separate investigations of this exceedingly sinister case I became alarmed as I realised that the formidable enemy we had sought had been Stapleton all along. Now, with the man's knowledge of our physical intimacy, he would be doubly dangerous.
When I voiced my dismay at this development, Holmes explained that I need not concern myself for he had conceived a plan for Stapleton to perish, a victim of his own fiendish hound. It was, after all, only justice, he said, that the man should die in the same horrific way that he intended to kill Sir Henry and had already caused the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.
It would indeed be fitting, I thought, if the man were to die at the mercy of his own malevolent beast so that he, too, should know the terror of his unfortunate victim. That Stapleton should be sacrificed on the altar of his own avarice to the brute force that he had unleashed and ruthlessly employed as an instrument of death would be justice indeed.
When I queried Holmes as to what he would do if we were forced to kill the hound in order to protect Sir Henry and, as a consequence, there was insufficient evidence to arrest Stapleton, he merely shrugged and remarked in his usual languid manner, "Do not concern yourself, my dear. As I said, Stapleton will pose no threat to us. In the event that he can not be charged with any crime, he and I shall go for a stroll in the great, wet Grimpen Mire," he gave an evil chuckle, "and I guarantee you that only one of us shall return!"
Appalled, I stared at him in outrage. He merely nodded at me, his normally-warm eyes an implacable steel grey, his expression one of deadly earnest.
He gripped my upper arms. "My dear, when I said that Stapleton was no threat to us - I meant it! When I said that I would allow no one to ever come between us - I meant it! No one - no one - will threaten your reputation, Watson! I will not allow it - ever!"
Abruptly he released me and stepped back and, as he paced up and down the small confines of the hut, I studied him, allowing my gaze to roam freely over this man that I loved so very dearly. My eye was caught by the Afghan coin that I had given him dangling from his watch chain, a token of my love which he wore proudly for all to see, if not understand. I also saw his wedding ring glinting softly in the lamplight, a symbol of his love and commitment to me, and I was reminded vividly of the promises we had made that day five years ago to love, honour and protect one another, and the fidelity with which we had kept those promises.
Holmes did indeed mean what he said, I realised, and quite literally. He would commit cold-blooded murder to save me - to save both of us - from ruinous scandal. Even after all these years together he could still shock me. Somehow I had not realised until that very moment that he would kill to protect our reputations rather than submit to blackmail and banish me from his life. When we had first become lovers the thought of discovery had often crossed my mind, but as the years progressed and no one ever guessed the true nature of our relationship, I had almost ceased to worry about it and I had never even stopped to consider just what I might do in the event of such an occurrence.
For Stapleton to die a victim of the savagery of his own fiendish brute was one thing, but to deliberately murder him by forcing him at gunpoint into the Grimpen Mire until he sank was another matter altogether.
In those stark moments the consequences of our intimate association were brought home to me in glaring reality. I was seeing an aspect of Holmes that I had glimpsed many times over the years as he set himself to hunt down an enemy. He would never allow a potential blackmailer, especially one as formidable as Stapleton, the freedom to threaten him - to threaten us - at will. He would act skilfully and quickly to bring the situation to a decisive and conclusive end. But whether the end justified the means...?
Did we have the moral right to deliberately and wilfully take a man's life - even so odious a creature as this - for the sake of protecting name and reputation? Did our love and our moral responsibility to each other really give us the right to simply put an end to another man's existence?
Holmes easily read the turmoil in my mind and cupped my face in his cool hands. "My dearest Watson, do you think that I would seriously allow such an enemy as Stapleton carte blanche to blackmail us? And make no mistake, he would! He has brains and he has gall, combined with one of the blackest hearts that I have ever encountered. We would be at his mercy and we would never be safe from him. In order to survive, we would be compelled to hunt him down and kill him before he destroyed us - and, do not deceive yourself, he would do his utmost to eliminate us for he would know that we were on his trail. Worse, because he is aware of our true natures, which he would no doubt twist into something sordid and depraved, we could not even solicit help from the police. Do you seriously believe that, even for one minute, I could entertain such a probability?"
Dismally, I shook my head, realising the absolute truth of his words. "No. You would not be Sherlock Holmes if you did. It is not in your nature to submit."
"Hah! Except to you, my dear!" he exclaimed in his wicked way.
Unable to help myself, I chuckled. "Quite right!"
For a moment he grinned openly at me before once more assuming a business-like manner.
"Nor is it in your nature, my dear, to submit to any form of threat. Am I not right?"
He was, I realised with dismay and a growing heaviness of heart.
It had taken this vile creature, this man of cold-blooded and murderous intent, to reveal the nature of my own beast, to make me realise that I would do anything to protect my dear Holmes. Anything! Yes, I, too, would commit murder to shield our love from the outside world and to safeguard our reputations - and the magnitude of this realisation appalled me. This then was the price that we both had to pay for our loving partnership - that each of us was prepared to kill - willingly and without mercy - to protect the other at the first sign of a threat to our reputations.
As always my dear one read my thoughts.
"We both knew that it would not always be easy," he murmured with infinite gentleness, taking my hands in his own steady ones and stroking them, his thumb running lightly over my wedding ring with its small, glittering sapphire.
"I know, Holmes, I know. But... but the price?"
"No price is too high to protect you, my dear John. I would pay any price - and pay it gladly - to safeguard our lives. Would you not do the same?"
Holmes was right, and we both knew it. Protecting a loved one was part of human nature, and there was nothing that I would not do for him, no price that I would not pay. I had always known this, even before we became lovers, and here in this forsaken and dangerous place I had been compelled to confront the darkest part of my own nature - my willingness to kill - to shield my beloved Holmes from harm. I had no choice but to reconcile my love for him with the knowledge that I would kill, and without regret, to defend that love and to safeguard my dear one's reputation, but I could not admit to it - not quite yet - and I remained troubled.
"Holmes, if we are willing to kill - to murder - for each other, I wonder are we truly any better than a man like Stapleton?"
His reaction was instantaneous. Where before he had clasped my hands gently, he now gripped them fiercely, grey eyes glaring ferociously at me.
"Don't say that, Watson! Don't you ever dare to compare either of us to a cold-hearted and ruthless killer like Stapleton! Could you even remotely contemplate acting as he has done?"
"Well of course not!" I defended. "But to kill needlessly?"
"How do you define ‘needlessly'?" His voice was implacable. "Far from being ‘needless', it is necessary to defend one's life and reputation. You are a physician, a healer of the sick, and it is not in your generous nature to kill ‘needlessly'," a quick smile lit his earnest features, "and do you think that I would love you if it was?"
Unable to remain serious, I smiled at him and shook my head.
"Oh, I am glad that we are agreed on that point, my dear," he muttered with more than a touch of sarcasm.
"Yes, Holmes," I conceded in most contrite manner.
"No matter that we may never be able to prove it, Stapleton murdered Sir Charles with an uninhibited and predatory savagery purely for his own greed. He will let nothing and no one stand in the way of his claim to the Baskerville fortune, whereas you and I would only kill to defend. We are not motivated by greed. That is the difference between men like us and a creature like him." He finally released his death grip on my hands.
"I know, Holmes, and I know you're right." I tried to surreptitiously rub my hands a little. "Forgive me?"
"Of course, my dear. Now you see why I have always said that we are well matched?"
I did indeed.
Abruptly, he noticed the livid mottling on my hands where the marks of his grip stood out whitely.
"Oh, John, I have hurt you! Oh, forgive me, my sweet!" he begged most contritely. "You know that I would never hurt you for the world!" He took my hands and held them close to the lamp to examine.
"It is nothing, Holmes," I assured. "The marks will soon be gone."
"Oh, forgive me, my dear, dear Watson!"
He brought my hands to his face to caress them with soft touches of his lips and gentle strokes of his lovely fingers whilst I stood there, shamelessly revelling in these unsolicited attentions from my unpredictable - and occasionally deadly - lover.
"You must tell me if I hurt you," he reproached. "I would never forgive myself if I injured you."
"Shh, my dear Holmes. I tell you it is nothing. I know that you would never deliberately hurt me - for that is not in your nature."
He gave a rueful smile. "Touché, my dear. None the less, will you forgive me for hurting your dear hands?" His expression was so humble and the pout of his pink lips reminded me irresistibly of a mischievous little boy who had been caught stealing a biscuit.
In answer I rose, picked up the grey shawl from his makeshift bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. His smile bespoke gratitude and abundant tenderness as I drew him to his feet and we embraced heartily, Holmes wrapping the shawl around both of us.
Held securely by his warmth, my spirits lifted and I revelled in his affectionate nature as love and acceptance flooded through me. As we shared a kiss that was as fierce as it was loving I realised that this was what I would cheerfully kill to protect. God help me, but I would.
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