Christmas With Sherlock: Gay Romance: MM Erotica

by Lou Watton

  I didn’t touch the test-tube, probably fearful to interfere with something I didn’t understand. I went to the bathroom. The hot shower made me forget my mini-adventure and all I knew about chemistry. It was caressing my skin and drowning my consciousness in the warm humid clouds.

  When I came back to the room, our breakfast was already served, and the host was sitting in one of the armchairs with his wide welcoming smile.

  ‘Coffee… At long last.’ He laughed heartily.

  ‘It’s okay. I had plenty of entertainment while waiting for it.’

  Peter held the silver pot and tipped it to let out a black intoxicating liquid from the nozzle. The smell was exquisite. He either knew how to make good coffee or had the best variety in the world. I reached for my cup, impatient to take in the potion.

  Aww… It also tasted divine. ‘Everything is awesome about you, Peter.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘I hope some things more so than others.’

  I peeked at him sideway and grinned, ‘I’d say it’s the totality that works its magic on me.’

  ‘It’s not the totality. It’s only the tip of an iceberg.’

  ‘I have a feeling, it will always be only the tip, no matter how deep I go.’

  I realised we had stopped smiling and locked our eyes on each other. Peter, what is it? Where is it going? Slipped off my mind but not the tongue.

  I became sombre and replaced my cup on the coffee table. I felt like covering my face with my hand, but didn’t think it was appropriate

  ‘What is it, John?’ he said.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ I suddenly asked.

  ‘Well…’ He heaved a sigh and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the hesitation. For some reason I took it to be a part of the bigger picture, together with this big house, he didn’t want me to go deeper in.

  ‘I run a company…’

  ‘What type of company?’ I asked and immediately felt I had no right to interrogate him. Would I stop? No.

  ‘Logistics. People call us when they need help with complex problems they can’t handle themselves and we provide help.’

  ‘You do realise, having said all these words you’ve said nothing at all. Every company is about logistics in this case.’

  Peter snorted.

  ‘Interesting.’ He took his cup and sipped at it. ‘John, it’s just difficult to explain what exactly we’re doing. I personally only attend to the management these days. I have experts who work for me.’

  ‘What’s the name of your company?’

  ‘Err… You won’t find us anywhere.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’m actually saying it because I don’t want to mislead you. We don’t advertise. We provide services to wealthy customers, and our advertising is by word of mouth alone. All our work comes from recommendations. Enough about me,’ he said looking down with a smile. He looked up and I was melted by his blue eyes. They looked gorgeous in the frame of this dark hair. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a doctor.’ I said shrugging my shoulders. ‘I actually treat people. I don’t manage anything. Well, I tried private practice once, but it went nowhere.’

  ‘No, you can’t survive like this. You can do nothing without networking.’

  He obviously knew a thing or two about it, and I didn’t want to go any deeper. It looked like we were not in the same league. Why was I surprised? It had been obvious from the start. From the house… From the light… Oh, God! You, successful, privileged twat, please, don’t reject me. Don’t let me go.

  ‘John, you have to promise to me one thing.’

  ‘What?’ I looked him in the eye.

  ‘You’ll come again.’

  ‘If you want…’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ll be honest with you, the reason why I’m saying it is because I have some business to attend to now. But I want to see you again.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go,’ I said replacing my cup on the coffee table.

  I stood up and went to the front door. He followed me. It was still dark in the hallway. I felt for my coat on the chair. I donned it and opened the front door. The morning light illuminated his face.

  ‘You know where to find me,’ he only said.

  I slightly nodded and shut the door behind me. As soon as I left, I realised something was wrong. I didn’t understand why we’d parted so coldly. I didn’t understand why we hadn’t even kissed. Hadn’t even shaken hands!

  I was at the door in the wall. I looked at it in the day light. Wow! It was ancient. It was definitely much older than the house. 1772 was written on it.

  I just wandered off when I shut that garden door. I needed time to comprehend what had happened to me. To mull over things. I almost said to figure out my life, but no… Now I definitely couldn’t do it. It had been decipherable before. Now it was a secret script. I didn’t’t even know whether everything that had happened to me in that house was consequential or not. But I knew for a fact that it was meaningful.

  When I woke up to reality, I couldn’t understand where I was. I loitered around. The houses were not that grand anymore. Not neo-gothic. Two up, two down. A row of them. Where was I? I moved on…

  I didn’t know how exactly I’d come to a place I finally recognised. I was very tired when I did. Now I knew what I had to do. I remembered a nice café around here. They would usually have a cosy table arrangement outside, right in front of the hearth. There were blankets you could wrap yourself in, and the area was well-heated.

  When I was already reaching the table I fancied, something dawned on me. I stopped, rooted to the ground.

  I didn’t know where I’d spent last night. I’d been wandering the streets, wanting to lose, to immerse myself in them, oblivious of names and location. It was my first day off and I just wanted to unwind, to set my mind free. Oh, boy, did I achieve it?

  I slumped on the chair, startled. The bright lights of the living room shining into the hazy winter evening rose before my eyes. Peter… His voice in my ear for the first time ever. His magical Christmas house and the two of us in front of the fireplace. All his secrets. My deep unclear hopes. Had I lost all this?

  What a blunder! I hadn’t even taken his number. You know where to find me, he said to me. That was what had confused me! I’d thought, ‘Yes! I can come back any time!’ I hadn’t bargained for this. My absent-mindedness, my unadulterated stupidity!

  A wave of defiance was rising inside me and coming close to my throat, seizing up my breath. I had to do something about it. I couldn’t just give this all up.

  I decided to trace my movements the day before, from the moment I’d left home. I had very little to go by. In the end my aim had been to lose my bearings. I’d first travelled north. Then I’d got off… I’d already found myself somewhere I’d barely known.

  I went to that place again and at first I was thrilled to recognise a small market full of vegetable stalls. I walked through it and took a turn I thought to be wrong. I went back to the market and walked in the opposite direction. I entered a long and winding street, then I turned and turned again… It exhausted me rather earlier than I expected, and it wasn’t the distance I’d covered. It was my bad emotional state. I was totally worn out and ready to give up. I didn’t know where to go and I could no longer move. I sat right on the ground and buried my face in my hands, but only for a moment. I was aware of the people around me and I didn’t want to attract attention, even worse, to have someone approach me and ask if I needed help. My grief was very personal. I was grieving for a lost Christmas, and I had no words to describe what a tragedy it was.

  I stood up and plodded back home. I changed my mind half way and went to the same café again. I slumped on the chair by the same table, which was still free or free again. I had regained my lost position. With only a slight difference — it was already getting dark. It was only about three p.m., but the dusk was apparent.

  My coffee arrived and I realised I couldn’t remembe
r ordering it. I must have been deeply in shock. I looked out towards the hearth. The snowflakes were slowly falling from the gloomy, darkening sky and I remembered how I had seen them for the first time today, when I woke up in his arms. Was I ready to lose all that? The next question sent me into panic. What was I going to do?

  The full moon was rising over the trees. I took a sip of my coffee, gazing at the falling snow. Inevitably his coffee came to my mind. There was no comparison. His coffee had intoxicated with its aroma even before it had landed on the coffee table… I had a feeling that whatever I was to do in my life from now on would be no match for what I had experienced in that house. And I knew for a fact I would never stop comparing. That house and that fire, that coffee, and that Christmas tree. Peter…

  A man came in and out of my life, so briefly. Like a snowflake, which would disappear in a second on the wet pavement. Was it real? Was it what it seemed to be? I’d thought I’d been at the beginning of a long journey. I’d thought I’d had a lot to explore here. Instead, I was left with memories of… not even an encounter. A beautiful Christmas story… Full of love, affection, and Christmas lights. In a magic house, somewhere on the edges of the universe… which had now disappeared into the pinkish horizon of my imagination.

  What should I do? Live by my memories of a single night, of his touch and his caring lips? Hope for a chance meeting again? Or maybe wait for the next Christmas in a hope that this hazy horizon would lift its veil one more time, and I would be allowed to enter that magic house again.

  Part 2

  Good things come to those who wait

  London fog on the same day of the year. Who could have predicted that?

  Wet cobblestones were my sole welcome in the emptiness of Break Street. At its other end barely visible trees stood enwrapped in the mist, hiding the rest of the Regent’s Park from me. I was tempted just to continue walking, like I did on that day. Who knew, maybe I would stumble upon Peter’s house again. A silly thought.

  The cabbie ditched my suitcase by the lamppost and left without words. Soon, the street became quiet. My life had created a loop in time it seemed. Except that I had a luggage to drag with me this time. It was as if I had never left London a year ago. The unbearable oven of the hospital in Kabul where I had spent my exile felt distant, half-forgotten. And it was distant, but still real. A dull, barely registering pain in my leg was a constant reminder of that.

  I hobbled towards number 226b where my landlady Miss Hatsom had resided. I knew she was expecting me. It was a lucky coincidence that the room I had previously occupied for nearly three years became vacant upon my return. She was very anxious to see me, at least she sounded like that on the phone.

  C’mon, John, cheer up, I thought. At least somebody was happy to see you back.

  The familiar grand whitewashed entrance and the red door. I buzzed and was let in without delay. Footsteps approached before I could restore my breath and take a proper look around. Miss Hatsom had renovated the house. The carpets were beige now, new and lacking visible stains. The white wallpaper with the golden fleur-de-lis pattern made the hallway look huge. I glanced at my dirty shoes and considered leaving them by the bucket filled with umbrella sticks.

  Miss Hatsom gave a warm hug, before adding a verbal explanation to her emotional welcome, ‘Mr. Dobson, thank God, you’re back unharmed and handsomer than I remember.’

  I had to admit she too looked no different from her half-a-century old self a year ago, even in that old-fashioned starched apron, quite an unusual outfit. A little unsettled, perhaps, bags under her eyes. She would certainly benefit from taking sleeping pills.

  Miss Hatsom must have noticed my scrutiny. ‘I was just serving tea. Would you like some now?’

  ‘Thank you. Maybe I’ll drop this in my room first.’

  ‘Of course, Mr. Dobson. Oh I’ve got so much to tell you,’ she immediately switched to whispering as we began climbing the stairs. ‘I have a new lodger, a very strange man. Plays his violin at night. Quite a handful, I must say.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mr. Peter Sherlock.’

  I stopped and stared at her. It was a coincidence, surely.

  Miss Hatsom continued her tale. ‘Your room is now the one Mr. Northfield used to occupy, straight through and on the left.’

  ‘So, Mr. Sherlock moved into mine.’

  ‘Quite so. He might be persuaded to switch with you if you wish. Everybody admires veterans.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call myself that.’

  ‘How very modest of you, Mr. Dobson.’

  Upstairs, the lounge looked just like in the old days. Only the burgundy of the walls and the chairs’ upholstery looked new. The fireplace was lit and crackling, devouring fresh logs. Those brass eagle-face chandeliers on the mantelpiece looked as sinister as I remembered them.

  A chair by the fireplace suddenly turned around.

  ‘Mr. Sherlock, this is Mr. Dobson, a new tenant. He is a doctor, just came back from the Middle East.’

  There was a pause. I was unable to muster a word to fill it. Peter looked right into my eyes, into my mind, and so intensely that I started blinking.

  ‘Gentlemen, I will serve tea shortly. Mr. Sherlock, Mr. Dobson.’

  She disappeared quickly, and the silence was crushing me to the ground again. Peter had changed since our encounter. A moustache and a beard added some years to his otherwise youthful exterior.

  ‘Hello, John.’

  I started upon hearing that charged with authority, yet mild and comforting baritone again. It was Peter, the very man I had lost my head over last Christmas. He had no idea what a domino chain of events he triggered in my life. I had never thought I’d remember his voice so well. Yet I did.

  Of course, I wanted to run up to him and hug him. Then my mind questioned it, as it questioned everything, for better or for worse. So I stayed put.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He smiled mysteriously.

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘What? But…’ I gaped at him. ‘How did you find me, Pet... Mr. Sherlock?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Mr. Dobson. I knew your first name, and the fact you are an otolaryngologist.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve left an otoscope at my house.’ Peter opened his palm and there it was.

  ‘Yeah… I’ve been looking for it. And how did it happen?’

  ‘You tell me,’ he snorted.

  ‘I must have had it in my pocket… Still, how did you find me by my name? I’m not the only ear doctor called John.’

  ‘Yet only one of them owns a silver otoscope with an engraving reading St Mary’s.’ Peter smiled, this time in a friendly inviting way.

  ‘So you asked around about me at the hospital?’

  Peter nodded. ‘Some great deduction, Dobson.’

  ‘But why are you here? What happened to your house?’

  ‘Oh, my brother Michael had inherited it when he married earlier this year. And he decided to terminate my residence in there after a somewhat unpredictable experiment with dynamite had destroyed the laboratory upstairs.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. But still, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Elementary, John. I needed a new office, and besides, I was looking forward to resuming our acquaintance.’

  A cough behind me meant the arrival of the tea tray. Toasts with butter and jam accompanied the drink. The landlady disappeared promptly. I wanted to ask about the whole upgrade of Miss Hatsom’s service, when Peter, as if reading my mind, explained it succinctly, ‘Miss Hatsom has kindly agreed to become my office secretary.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘John, are you going to stand there like a statue or would you join me for tea?’

  I shuffled towards the vacant armchair, which was standing a yard away from his. Memories of our first encounter flooded my already overwhelmed brain. I slumped into my seat, accepting a cup from him. Dear Miss Hatsom had always made wonderful tea, and my olfactory r
eceptors confirmed that once again.

  Peter’s long elegant fingers, his pale, aristocratic palm didn’t escape my attention either. The graciousness of his movements was masking Peter’s physical power. I couldn’t help recalling how this man had held me in his tight embraces a year ago, how his wiry limbs had intertwined with mine. Then I noticed Peter studying me, and in embarrassment, I slurped my tea a little too loud than acceptable.

  ‘Vastus medialis or lateralis?’ Peter said. Fire reflected in his eyes, which were gazing at me seriously, making him look diabolical.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Where the bullet went through. I noticed how you tried to hide your limp from me.’

  ‘Was is that obvious?’

  ‘Only if you paid attention.’ Peter spread butter on the toast and handed it to me.

  I thanked him, and only after taking the first bite I figured how terribly famished I was. Good thinking, Miss Hatsom.

  Peter chuckled. ‘I’m glad the war didn’t take away you appetite. Your plump rosy cheeks are something I’ve always remembered about you.’

  I nearly choked on a breadcrumb. ‘You thought of my rosy cheeks?’

  Peter’s face went all naughty. ‘Your all kind of cheeks.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you had to search for me. I’m such a moron. The morning I left your house I realised that I didn’t know where it was located. I was not myself the whole week after that. The memories of our night together sent me out on a few random walks around London. I was even mugged once. Then the Kabul opportunity presented itself, and I thought I’d rather leave and forget, than keep torturing myself.’

  ‘I came to a conclusion that you didn’t know where I was a week after you’d left. I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier, John. I must admit, at first I misinterpreted your absence as indifference or rejection. I thought you were with someone.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, a little too loud again. We then gazed at each other, and as moments passed by it became clear that it went well past the mere acknowledgement of our kinship. It called for something more, and Peter, being a faster mind than I am, was the one to interrupted the silence in the end. ‘Perhaps, you’d like to see how I refurbished what used to be your room?’