This Man's Heart - Chapter 9

[ellie_hell]

Title: This Man's Heart - Chapter 9
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 4293
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured at war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.

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Chapter 9

Sherlock opened his eyes, and John was standing at the end of his bed; his scarf tied around his neck and eyes glimmering over a charming smile. Like he had done on their brief first meeting, he pressed his index finger to his lips. Then, John climbed onto the bed and crawled over Sherlock until he was straddling his hips. Sherlock could feel the warmth of his friend's thigh on his sides, and he held his breath. His heart was beating so fast, he could barely hear anything else. John lowered himself until his lips was only an inch away from Sherlock's right ear. Then, he started whispering the names of the bones in the human skull while Sherlock buried his fingers in John's hair, massaging his scalp tenderly.

"Nasal, lacrimal, zygomatic…."

Sherlock had to bite down a moan. Something was burning low in his stomach, but it wasn't painful; the burn felt heavenly, almost liberating. He lowered his hand to John's neck, stroking carefully over the thin strands holding the mask in place. It would have been so easy to untie them and take a proper look at John's ravaged face, but he didn't consider doing it; John trusted him enough to get that close, and that meant more than satisfying his curiosity.

"Maxilla, volmer, mandible…."

John's left hand caressed Sherlock's jaw as he delicately kissed a sensitive spot just under Sherlock's ear. John's lips felt warm and supple, and Sherlock could feel his skin burning up as his friend's lips traveled from his ear to his chin, kissing every inch along the way.

"Sphenoid, ethmoid…"

John's lips were hovering over Sherlock's, who looked into his friend's wide blue eyes. His pupils were dilated, almost no colour was visible, but he could read so much into these eyes. He saw desire, trust, tenderness, and then nothing at all as John closed his eyes, whispered, "Sherlock…" and kissed him fully on the lips.

Sherlock woke up with his heart pounding so hard he could feel it everywhere in his body. His cotton nightshirt was sticking to his chest, and he was panting. He could still feel his insides burning, and there was a pleasant tingling in his thighs. He looked down under the covers before closing his eyes and rolling onto his side, curling into a ball. It was far from being his first unwanted erection, but the feeling of being utterly consumed by both lust and guilt was unfamiliar. His insides were twisting unpleasantly, and he could feel his blood pumping in his groin; his body had never given him such contradictory responses. He knew a few strokes would've been enough to bring release, but the prospect felt cold and impersonal, so he concentrated on regulating his breathing, knowing the bittersweet torture would eventually subside.

The skull was grinning at him from his bedside table and, in an attempt to distract himself, Sherlock recalled his aunt's horrified look when he had shown her his present. She had categorically refused his proposal to put it on the mantle and had threatened to throw it out if she ever saw it anywhere other than his bedroom. So here they were, the skull and him, staring at each other in the hot summer night. It was the last thing Sherlock saw before sleep claimed him again.

The next day was a Sunday, and Martha had already left for church when Sherlock woke up. He brought the skull with him in the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil. In the bright morning light, the skull didn't look as if it were grinning anymore; it looked judgmental. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Of course the skull would be judgmental, it had seen in what condition his owner had woken up during the night. The first night after it had been offered as a gift from John. Now that was something to be ashamed of.

"Stop looking at me like that," Sherlock told the skull as he poured boiling water into a cup and dropped a small tea bag into it. He got no response.

"I'm a grown man; it's a normal physiological reaction. You should know that, you were a living man once."

The skull remained silent, but that wasn't surprising. What was bewildering was the fact that he was trying to have a conversation with a skull.

"This is preposterous," he said before turning away from the skull's condemning glare.

He finished his tea, returned the skull to his bedroom, and left the house. As usual, he made his way to the shore, looking for John's red scarf, but the trees held no invitation. Disappointed, he decided to walk to the village. He knew Gregory would be in church, most people were, but he had things to discuss and he didn't want to talk at dinner in front of Aunt Martha and the whole Lestrade family. It was easy to pick the lock and sneak into the store – far too easy – he would have to tell Mr. Lestrade about more effective security measures. He sat at the chess table and waited for Gregory's return.

He didn't have to wait that long for Gregory to open the door cautiously. His hesitation spoke volume; he clearly remembered locking it before leaving for church and was surprised to find it ajar. Probably fearing that whoever had broken in was still inside, Gregory entered extremely carefully. His muscles were tensed; he was ready to fight.

"Enjoyed the homily?" Sherlock asked and his deep voice echoed through the store, making Gregory jump.

"Sherlock!" Gregory exclaimed, his whole body relaxing instantly when he realized that yes, the store had been broken in, but the perpetrator was far from threatening.

"How good to see you, please do come in and make yourself comfortable," he added playfully before sitting in his usual chair in front of the white pieces. He hardly took the time to think before he played his favourite opening move: pawn to d4.

"Really Gregory, again?" Sherlock asked with the hint of a smile, and he mirrored the action, his own pawn moving to d5. Then, he thought there was no reason delaying the conversation he wanted to have, and he bluntly asked:

"How are things going between you and Sarah?"

Gregory moved a knight to f3.

"We will get married, so of course things are going well. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock ignored the question, and advanced his pawn to e6.

"Have you been intimate?"

"Sherlock! You can't ask things like that! It's private!"

"I need to know. It's very important information, don't be coy."

Gregory leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined.

"Well if you need to know, we haven't gone further than kissing. Her parents have somewhat old-fashioned values, and she says pleasures of the flesh are for married couples."

Sherlock scoffed, and Gregory laughed.

"Don't be like that, it's not an uncommon principle. But what can I do? I love her, and if the price I have to pay to cherish her the rest of my life is a bit of waiting, then it's not much is it?"

Gregory moved his pawn to e3.

"Seriously Sherlock, why do you ask?"

"An experiment in human relationships," Sherlock answered noncommittally, and he moved his pawn to c5.

Gregory suspected there was more behind the inquiry. He looked at Sherlock and tried to find the real motive behind the question, but if there were something more than what Sherlock was letting on, Gregory couldn't see it.

"You have had intercourse before," Sherlock announced. "In a large city, not everyone has his nose buried in other people's business and, provided that you remained discreet, you could have gotten away with far worse than intercourse."

"Are you telling me or asking me?" Gregory asked because, with Sherlock, sometimes it was hard to tell. He had done that countless time since they had first met: deducing things and getting annoyed when Gregory answered what he thought were questions.

"I was merely observing," Sherlock said.

"Of course you were," Gregory replied, trying to sound peeved, but truthfully, he was pretty amused by the discussion and extremely curious as to why his friend was talking about matters they had never discussed before.

"What about you? Have you ever been with someone else… intimately?" Gregory asked.

"You're not entirely stupid, I'm certain you could deduce that by yourself," Sherlock answered, and Gregory wanted to kick himself for being so unobservant. Sherlock had never had a real friend, and he had belittled romantic attachment plenty of times in the past; obviously he had never been with anyone in that way.

"Do you think you'll ever marry?"

Sherlock's response was immediate, "Dull."

Then, he seemed to think for a moment before he asked, "Do you dream of Sarah sometimes?"

Gregory coughed and turned bright red. He didn't need to talk; Sherlock could easily identify the signs of embarrassment. It was a relief to know he wasn't the only one blushing because of vivid dreams. However, Gregory and Sarah were in love and engaged while he and John were friends. A scolding voice inside his mind kept insisting that dreams that left you sweating, panting, and hard were not part of the Friendship Code, and he felt even worse than he had the night before.

Gregory was even more curious than he had been when Sherlock had first brought the subject up. He was used to his friend's shameless questions, but this felt different; it didn't seem as though Sherlock was gathering information for the sake of doing so. He looked like someone trying to obtain data to answer a personal inquiry. Suddenly, Gregory was reminded of Sherlock's vivid interest in one particular issue, one subject he never tired of discussing. He couldn't resist investigating and pushing the matter a little further.

"Sherlock, is this about John Watson?"

"Of course not!" he replied, but Gregory wasn't fully convinced.

For all he knew, his friend could be attracted to men; same-sex couples weren't that unusual after all, and only a minority considered those unions a sin. Harry Watson had been married to a woman before arriving in Sainte-Cécile, and although a lot of bad had been said about her, her choice of partner had rarely been frowned upon. Furthermore, two men – Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran – were living together, and the villagers were very fond of them. Still, Sherlock had never expressed being attracted to any woman or man, so it was unsettling to think of him as a man with a sexual orientation, whichever it was.

"It's your turn."

Gregory was shaken out of his reverie by Sherlock's imperious tone, and he looked at the pieces for a moment before moving a pawn to c4. Sherlock, having anticipated the move, rolled his eyes and moved his knight to c6.

"You know, if you ever need some help with your experiment on human relationship, you can ask me," Gregory offered.

"I thought that's what I was doing right now," Sherlock answered and he tilted his head slightly, looking at his friend with a confused expression.

Finally, Sherlock's rook gave the final blow, but Gregory was so used to defeat he didn't truly care anymore. During the afternoon, he tried discussing dreams again, but his attempts were unsuccessful. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson arrived for dinner, and they had to abandon the chess table. Like they did every Sunday, they sat around the Lestrades' table and enjoyed a lovely meal, but Sherlock looked more distracted than usual throughout the whole evening.

:::

It took only two days before Sherlock saw John's scarf floating in West Birches Bay and, as discussed, they met in Salty Swamp. Sherlock hadn't had any other John-filled dreams, but the memory of that night could still make his knees weak, and he couldn't shake the guilty feeling suffocating him. John had accepted to trust him, had made him the exception, and he felt as though he had betrayed that trust and had been rendered unworthy of the privilege. He knew he was being unreasonable, that John couldn't possibly know about the dream, but it did nothing to assuage his guilty conscience.

Sherlock felt uneasy when, upon arriving, John helped him pull his boat out of the water and onto the shore. Luckily, his embarrassment vanished when he saw John's glittering eyes and his bright smile under the leather mask. He could finally breathe without the unpleasant feeling that something exceptionally large was crushing his lungs, and the perception that tiny insects were crawling under his skin receded. He felt better than he had felt in days, there were no traces of the guilt and shame he had felt in the previous days, only John's calming presence he felt the urge to take John's hand, Sherlock didn't resist. His aunt often held his hand for various reasons, one of them being the need to demonstrate joy. He was happy to see John, and holding his hand seemed like a decent enough way to communicate that.

"Where are you taking me today?" he asked.

John didn't respond. He just stared at their entwined fingers as though he had never seen two joined hands before. Sherlock's fingers were unusually long and thin, while John's were darker, shorter, and thicker. It was a captivating sight; Sherlock found it difficult to tear his gaze away and, when John started walking, he didn't let go of his hand.

The tide was low; therefore, the swamp was almost devoid of salted water and they easily walked through the wetland, the reed gently brushing against their they reached a secluded area, John stopped. He didn't need to request silence, Sherlock understood they needed to keep remarkably quiet and motionless when he saw the delicate figures scattered across the high herbs. Every noise and every move seemed momentous.

Several Great Blue Herons were feasting on insects and small fishes that had been carried along by the tide and had remained trapped when it had retreated. For a long time, Sherlock and John observed the magnificent creatures: their slow walk, their tall slender legs, their diving beaks, and their long flexible necks. Away from the others, one of the herons was standing perfectly still, pretending not to want anything until a prey appeared. Then, with astounding rapidity, he snatched the insect with his sharp beak.

Later, the wind turned. There wasn't a single warning sound or any sign leading to the heron's imminent departure. It was therefore a surprise when, in one single movement and in perfect harmony, the necks abruptly stood up. The herons looked at the empty sky, stretched their massive wings and, together, they flew up to the sky. Just like that, it was over.

"Fifth treasure," Sherlock whispered so softly he didn't think John could've heard.

John turned to face Sherlock.

"If you were an animal, you would be a Great Heron."

"Why?"

"They're incredibly tall," he said while smiling, "and so gracious, but unlike some other animals, they aren't aware of it. They don't try to amaze, gracious is just the way nature has made them."

He paused for a moment before continuing.

"There is a kind of arrogance in their posture. They can be terribly solitary animals, although they don't object to the company of others."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. He had never tried comparing himself to any animal, but listening to the way John described the Great Herons, he had to admit it was quite flattering. Especially since John had used his arrogance – something people usually didn't appreciate about him – to compare him to the beautiful, elegant animal. He hadn't done it sarcastically or to mock it, he had spoken fondly.

Fascinating.

"What about you? What animal would you be?" he asked.

"Come, I'll show you," John said as he pulled on Sherlock's hand, urging him to follow as he walked to their rendezvous point of the day in Salty Swamp.

"Sixth treasure," he said.

Close to Sherlock's rowboat, there was a cormorant sitting on the dry part of a reef almost entirely flooded by the sea. John kneeled in the grass, and Sherlock followed. They stayed still for almost an hour, watching the bird perched on the highest rock as it offered its water-soaked wings to the sun and the wind.

Cormorants weren't a mystery to Sherlock; he knew the beautiful and majestic birds suffered from a curious handicap. Their wings were partly permeable, which was helpful when they had to dive into the water, but rendered them heavier when their feathers were gorged with water. That explained why they were so often seen sitting on rocks, wings spread and looking sad while patiently waiting to regain their ability to fly.

In his life, he had seen dozens of cormorants drying off their wings. Yet, on that day, maybe because he had stopped to be genuinely attentive or because he had stayed still for so long watching it, something was different. He felt as though he could perceive the cormorant's melancholy. When finally the bird spread its wings, felt their lightness, shook them a few times and flew away, Sherlock felt like applauding. The jolly lightness he felt in his chest as he watched the bird getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared had nothing to do with what he had felt when the herons had taken flight. While he had been disappointed to see the herons leave, it was a relief to know the cormorant could fly again.

"I understand the resemblance," he told John.

"They aren't sad," John said with a small smile, "but they have to live with their handicap."

"Before I spent the night in your manor, by the foxes' enclosure, what happened?"

For a while, John didn't say anything. He got up, letting go of Sherlock's hand, and led them away from the burning summer sun and into the forest until he found an adequate place to they were settled comfortably, John seemed to hesitate for a moment. He stared at Sherlock's long fingers until he made up his mind and entwined their fingers again. Sherlock gently squeezed John's hand, something Aunt Martha used to do when he was younger and telling her about those tormenting him at school. It seemed to have the same soothing effect on John, and he finally answered the question.

"Sometimes, I imagine there never was an accident. I came back intact from Afghanistan, I am a doctor, and everything is still within my reach. It's easy to invent thousands of lives for myself. Then, I emerge from my dreams with my false identity and it always takes a few minutes before I remember the mask and what it's hiding. The last time it happened, you caught me."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand tighter and urged him to tell him more about his former accepted, and he told him about Clara's support and about how she had persuaded him to try resuming his previous life when he had been healed enough to leave the bed. It hadn't gone as well as hoped; his old friends were reluctant to look at him, even with the mask on.

"At that point, it looked even worse than it does now, and the mask couldn't perfectly cover everything. My friends' looks of disgust were worse than Harry's had been. She had seen the whole thing while my friends couldn't begin to imagine and still, the mask made them cringe. The screaming children didn't help…."

Sherlock couldn't prevent the small chuckle escaping his lips and John used their entwined hands to hit him playfully on the shoulder.

"Oh stop it, it was horrible. I would go out for a walk with Clara and every single child we encountered would start screaming bloody murder. I got tired of it very quickly, and eventually stopped leaving the house altogether."

"Children can be awful," Sherlock agreed and it was John's turn to chuckle.

"Yes, they can be. So I was now spending all my time in our house, but Clara was still very supportive. She lent me some books and made me discover Balzac, Dumas, Stendhal, Laclos, Hugo…."

Seeing Sherlock's puzzled expression, he explained.

"They are authors, don't you know them? I thought you read a lot."

"I've never read fiction, only textbooks. Fiction is a waste of time."

"You're missing something, then, it's really not," John said and Sherlock shrugged, unconvinced.

"At first, the books were only a way to pass the time," John continued, "but very soon they became much more than that. At that point, Harry was either on a hunting trip or drunk out of her mind, and I always suspected Clara would've left her if it weren't for me. About two years after that, we came here."

The story couldn't end there. Now that Sherlock knew how important Clara had been to John, he had to know what had happened on the boat. So he asked, and it was John's turn to squeeze Sherlock's hand tighter, as though he was trying to gather up enough courage to continue.

"Harry wanted an heir. Preferably an unharmed strapping boy, a boy to continue the Watson lineage; something she knew I would never do. The fact that they were both women never stopped her, and after much pleading on Harry's part, Clara was persuaded to visit a… a very dodgy place where men sell their semen to women who wish to procreate, but can't."

Sherlock was stunned.

"I never knew such places existed!"

"It would never work in a place like Sainte-Cécile, but London is big enough for the whole process to remain anonymous. So Harry picked the tallest, strongest, and most handsome man available, she paid him a hefty sum, and he took Clara to a small room where the, err… transfer was made."

"It worked?"

"On their first attempt. When Clara was three months pregnant, the manor on Spruce Cape was ready and we left to come here. Unfortunately, she miscarried during the crossing and started bleeding profusely. I did all I could to keep her alive, but I had very limited supplies and eventually, she died."

John was squeezing his hand so tightly it was painful, but the thought of disengaging their fingers never crossed Sherlock's mind.

"When she died, I felt as though I was dying too. She was the only one who loved me despite my appearance. I often took the mask off when I was alone in my room, touching my face as an attempt to get used to it. Clara knew, and sometimes she came into my room, sat beside me, and stroked my face – my whole face – with her soft hands. I miss her so much…."

It now seemed obvious where John's red scarf came from, and why he was almost never seen without it. Sherlock wanted to do something comforting, but his knowledge in that area was somewhat limited, so he tried to imagine what his aunt would have done if she had been in the same situation. Physical contact, probably. Aunt Martha always hugged her friends when they sought support. However, his current position wasn't favourable to proper hugging. Instead, he followed the urge he had had while they had been watching the moon freed his hand, scooted closer to John and wrapped one of his long arms around his shoulders. Instantly, John buried his face in Sherlock's pale neck and it was so easy, so simple; he looked as though he belonged there.

The rest of his story was muffled by Sherlock's neck.

"Harry never got over Clara's death. Between the hunting trips and the alcohol, she never managed to find balance. She still has me, but she can neither look at me nor bear the looks of the people who see me. I do what she wants because I don't actually want to interact with others, and I know how crucial it is to her, how badly she needs to be protected."

Once John was done talking, Sherlock gave in to the temptation and buried his fingers deep into John's hair, stroking his scalp low on his skull where head turns into neck. It felt even softer than it had in his dream and Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations setting his skin on fire. The mask was smooth and warm where it was pressed against his neck, but it was nothing compared to the feel of John's skin against his own.

"I'm sorry, I'm not being terribly manly," John said after a while.

"It wouldn't be if I were a swooning lady. I don't think there's anything wrong with it when two friends are involved. There's probably a clause about it in The Friendship Code, I should ask Gregory…."

"What's the Friendship Code?" John asked, welcoming the distraction from his sorrow.

"Some rules friends are meant to follow. Like being each other's best man, keeping each other's secrets, and not wooing the woman the other is courting. Things like that."

John laughed, and Sherlock felt relieved and a little proud that his comforting strategy seemed to be a success. However, he didn't move in case John needed to be comforted some more. Also, it felt nice and warm to be sitting there with him.

"Tell me about those rules friends are supposed to follow. It's been a while since I've had a friend, I'm out of practice."

So Sherlock told him about Gregory Lestrade and what he had learned since the two of them had become friends. He was aware that he was rambling, but he wanted to distract John and this seemed to be working. Eventually, they disentangled their limbs and returned to their own homes, but not before the sun had gone down, chased by the moon.

Unfortunately, they never saw the two pairs of eyes watching their embrace from a distance.

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:::

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