Pov John Watson
He fought for hours, and I watched, mostly stunned, given the fury that discharged in those illegal boxing matches.
I bet, knowing to win, when he had angered, as on that afternoon in Baker Street.
He kept in hiding things, while trying to unite them in trunks and suitcases, to move into my new apartment: it was limited to this, the move, perhaps in a room more comfortable and suitable to my profession as a doctor, but the reason was quite different.
The engagement and subsequent marriage with Mary, not yet fixed.
Prevarication, without knowing the exact reason, indeed, without wanting to admit that he wanted, Sherlock Holmes, he becomes accustomed to that pace a little as he did, with my body, the first time that I had taken by force, knowing he wanted, but refused, pawing the ground, escaping with energetic rebellion.
It was and is mine, had to figure it out, submit, crying while I enjoyed: I'm a bastard, no one would say, from my future bride to the Victorian lady of the house, paying his respects to the gypsy to me on the street corner, while the other a whore some bravado inspires me as a bachelor.
Here, Holmes is my bitch, I'll tell him later, when it will rise to the first floor of this horrific place, an arena of axes, earth and straw, spitting, screaming and sweat beads on his countenance carved it and offended more points, I treated them to him personally, and then cover them with kisses, while my fingers dug into his hidden channel of moods, including those legs, which forced her to bend, while I pushed and hit his portion of meat, ready to explode of pleasure , throwing Holmes in the most absurd mockery, raising my pants in the most unbridled lust.
"I open hell!"
My screams seemed to move up to the skylight, as the smoke and the breath of the customers, with their pipes, raw and smelly.
"Holmes, then ??!!"
A creak, two steps back, his back to meet me, he did not even look at me.
"... We must speak Sherlock." - Is accustomed to my kindness, for that matter are two educated and civilized people.
Bestiality in the reserve that side of me, who can not do without him, but never would surrender to the lure loving, his heart of that incredible Holmes are not what they think or who thinks himself to be, I do not matter does not concern me, no.
No ...
"What do you Watson?" - Asks gaunt, bending his dirty shirt, and then pour water from the jug to the bowl, where they summarily wash.
The fireplace is lit, if that hole in the wall full of cracks can 'be defined as such: yet warm enough to bare room and ancient, where he often stops to sleep, to think, to meditate.
He runs away from me, in that corner unhealthy, empty least of his papers and junk, even cleaner.
There is a straw mattress and there we never did.
"How are you feeling?"
"What's the matter?"
We are dueling in a more subtle and elegant, we are not barbarians, like the blacksmith with whom he punched, slapped a few minutes before.
Holmes would say that this guy is far more worthy of me, I'm sure, but I am only a man in love with provocations and disappointed.
"I ... can I check?"
"I'm fine doctor, go now, he better to deal with, think of the excoriation of the pretty Mary."
"Bruises? What fancies? "
"Scrapes, bruises, swelling in his eyes invisible stupid, Watson, and yet see that flash on the surface in a single solution."
The scrutinizing, I feel really stupid, I can not decipher what his trap, can not be otherwise.
"Explain Holmes." - I ask seriously, taking off my coat, going to sit on the windowsill, where some empty bottles falter slightly, if I settle my jacket.
"A letter of good wishes and congratulations, I'm referring to this. I sent this morning to Miss Mary, seasoned with colorful anecdotes, about you and me just say ... ... conventional. "
A wry smile, that becomes a grimace, a reflection of that I think I'm doing.
"It 'a joke, right ...? Holmes also in bad taste ... "
My breath is broken: why would a young smart as Mary, should give credit to an amoral character like Sherlock?
I always described it to him that, even if in meeting, she had re-evaluated, while recognizing their extravagance.
"Our carnal exercises, I think the fun, some drawings, explanatory ... charcoal, essential, but accurate." - And giggles, uncorking another beer with his teeth.
"I mean, is it ??!!" you handle it?
I felt like an erupting volcano, parched throat, as my irises, but he was proud and convincing in what he said, of course, he could little game to perfection.
I was passed from Mary in the late evening, but could not find, a dinner from his aunt in the country, this was the motivation riferitami from the mother, but his tone in that cold, that instantly I had not, maybe it was already enclosed in contempt of I.
The formalities of the simple family, but proud of his daughter from a noble family governess, bothered me from the beginning, but future in-laws were also generous enough to afford a future as a gambler, restrained only by Holmes and enormous sacrifices.
I would have vented, I admit.
"What is Watson fancied? The way to kill me, perhaps? Too late, the postal service in London is very efficient, you know? "
"Will you stop saying nonsense! She has ruined me! "
Now it's his chest button, which advances toward my face, on which throws a blow so full of pride and brutality, from crashing against the glass of the window, and greenish rotten from the profiles.
The crackling of sparks merges with the shards of wet fog, but it is only a step from that position curved, with a relaxed, my face pressed to the floor, the weight of Holmes to hang, your wrists at the mercy of his phalanges trembling - "Shut up fucking bastard!"
He's right about everything: what they are saying, not suddenly, but since I insist want me to subtract in its habits, the unwritten rules of the man so brilliant, that seemed to hang in size artifacts, whereas he was more solid and sighted a thousand essays lined up in front of Baker Street.
I want to get over that smile, that donavo, each awakening, when it plunged into my room, submitting cases intricate and absurd, ruffling his hair, hiding a note under my pillow, § For all that John will give me until the end, I ... § - and was never able to conclude that concept.
He drew back suddenly, finishing at the bottom of that hovel.
I could hear the disappointment in his breath, for making me wrong: I was bleeding from the mouth, was a scratch, nothing more.
I inhaled, raising the palms, the two tears that were streaking my face flushed with embarrassment and too late repentance.
"I love you ... Sherlock ... until the end."
I said, as a liberation.
Instead he was comforting, it was fascinating, for it becomes a participant in that feeling of what it really felt for him, although I feared it was useless.
I passed by, letting slip an envelope, addressed to Mary, in front of my shoes.
Came out, wearing my coat and pants, barefoot, without a hat.
I opened as alienated, yellowish parchment quell'involucro: we saw, stretched beneath an oak tree, embraced and fully clothed, wrapped in a piece that romantic past, that I had left to deploy, because they are too scared of the consequences.
A caption below that stood out the sketch:
§ Miss Mary, take care of John, I entrust you with all the affection of a friend, who can always turn to, when circumstances make it necessary, the rest just her unconditional love. Thank you. SH §
I run.
Tripping.
I start running.
I'm sobbing, and urged customers to pubs still open, drunken sailors on leave and I fasten the way, asking a few cents: I like the most miserable, poor, without my Sherlock, but they can not know.
They should, all, I would shout to the world, how much I love my ... my little Sherlock, seems truncated, crouched on the bench stone pier, where we set sail for a survey on the Thames last week.
It 'a slight drizzle, but annoying, gushing about the fabric, no longer able to heat it.
Without a coach, after having picked up, then giving orders to the coachman to take us back home.
Our home.
Once I entered my way through those unnecessary baggage, undoing all that, I'll tell him at dawn, when he returns to smile.
The plunge in the pool, I join him, rubbed, kissed, without claiming any debate, his eyes are enough for me, so great, where I could lose myself, feeling safe, now.
We are wrapped in a blanket beneath blankets more, sealed to each other, stuck his face in my neck, her breath, clocked by sleep, wet, hot, like his abdomen, his sex, caressing mine, without prurience.
My arms hold him hostage, will not go away again ... And I to him.
I love him so much, to die, if necessary, but I do not care, he will be with me until the end.
THE END
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