Author's Notes: Welcome to part 2 of my Sherlock novel that was
never supposed to be this long. I don't regret it though, because I
believe this has grown into something far better and more complex than I
originally intended.
The POV will switch periodically now as needed and therefore so will the
tense. Because one of the complaints I remember reading about Before I
Go to Sleep was the fact that the main character using past tense
when she was incapable of remembering anything beyond a day made no sense,
Sherlock has been using present tense all along. When he switches to past
tense, it indicates that he is healed and able to retain memories again.
Everyone else is able to use past tense (though Henry usually uses present
as well, unless it is a flashback). This was an experiment well outside my
comfort zone as I am so used to past tense, which allows greater
manipulation of timeframes in storytelling.
---
Day 10: Friday, 19 February 2016
---
I see a car with London plates parked round the corner while I am walking
Grace. While it isn't impossible that someone in the development would have
visitors - possibly from out of country since a new car usually only gets
that many scratches when it is a rental - something about it still strikes
me as odd.
Once I have Grace back inside the house, I head straight to the back garden
- following the clue I uncovered just before Grace interrupted me.
When the queen goes above board. Clever.
It takes me a few tries and a trip back out to the smoker where I find a
crumpled piece of paper with the quote attributed to John H. Watson. I have
gone to a lot of trouble to hide the contents of the memory stick from my
husband. At first glance, it is unclear why. The first few entries are
identical to the ones in the journal on my laptop, beginning with our
honeymoon on the continent. But after the familiar erotic images and
vacation photos is an entry voicing concern that Henry is lying to me and
"editing" the "official" journal on my laptop. I amended this note
yesterday, being sure to time stamp the addition for clarity of context.
'I understand the need for all the lies now,' I wrote. 'It doesn't matter
which of us manufactured the lies initially, we must both maintain them now
to protect ourselves and the people we care about from a man who may well be
the most dangerous killer I have ever faced. Until my memory improves, I
will remain ignorant of the threat he poses before Josh has the opportunity
to present all the data I have collected.'
Who is Josh?
I instinctively open a web browser and begin typing the name "Josh" into a
search box before I realize I don't know what, exactly, I am looking for.
The entry provides very little information and a clear warning against
investigating further before I know what I have already uncovered.
I read further. This version of the past three months has noticeable gaps
where I failed to find the memory stick - a problem I remedied recently by
buying a jar of honey at a local market, pouring the contents into a cleaned
jam jar and passing it off as fresh from my hive. I even enlisted my
neighbor Lillian to design a label that would guide me to look above the
crown board, although I doubt she realizes the significance.
At about the same time, I made a discovery: the tablet Henry gives me twice
a day is a sugar pill. The actual drug is in at least one of the teas in the
kitchen cupboard - an herbal blend that purports to relieve headaches. This
strikes me as both brilliant and dangerous. Brilliant because, as my
condition seems to include a degree of paranoia, it is the most reliable way
to insure I receive a dose every day. Dangerous because it would be far too
easy for me to overdose unintentionally.
Which brings me to the other question I had hoped this experiment would
answer: what is the purpose of the drug? My notes stress that it is still
unclear whether the drug is a treatment for my condition or, as I have
hypothesized, causing said condition. It would be an egregious error to
theorize one way or another before I have all the facts - and until Lillian
tests the samples I gave her nothing is certain - but so far the evidence is
mounting in the case against it being a treatment for amnesia. Employing
such an unpredictable method of treatment against a rare condition would be
ineffective at best, dangerous at worst.
If the drug is in fact causing my memory loss and taking it reduces my
symptoms of withdrawal...it would explain why I would specifically choose a
tea that claims to relieve headaches to lace with it.
No. I can't be the one dosing the tea. It has to be Henry.
Benzodiazepene. Or something similar. Probably a custom blend. Even if I
determined the mixture, Henry has to be controlling the dosage. Which would
further explain why my memory is improving. He is gradually reducing the
dosage, slowly breaking my dependency without even me realizing it is
happening. It's still an imperfect solution - the dosage can vary from day
to day based on factors not in his control. If I don't drink the tea that is
drugged, I risk considerable side effects. If I drink too much, I risk
undoing any progress I have made so far in my recovery.
Oh. Of course. All the times - in both journals - that I noted his obvious
fear of losing me. His desperation to make me happy.
'We are on a carousel.'
He knows my condition will improve eventually. If, in my ignorance, I take
too much of the drug, I will simply be delaying the inevitable a bit longer.
His guilt over keeping me in this amnesiac state likely feeds his anxiety.
He wants me to remember him, but he fears what will happen when I do.
My condition is only part of the puzzle if my note from yesterday is any
indication, however. Who is this dangerous killer and why is there no
mention of him even in the journal Henry doesn't know about?
'Until my memory improves, I will remain ignorant of the threat he poses
before Josh has the opportunity to present all the data I have collected.'
The answer comes to me suddenly, absent of anything but a vague memory of
hovering over Henry in an unfamiliar bed, murmuring "Josh" against his
parted, trembling lips.
I didn't run to Liverpool and change my name to hide from a past I couldn't
bear remembering. We are both hiding from a very real danger. The man who
could kill everyone we care about.
I send a text to Henry that simply says 'who is Josh?', then I finish
reading this secret journal. It seems my last attempt at contacting Lillian
about the status of her testing was two days ago. She gave an
uncharacteristically brusque response that she was still awaiting the
results, then apologized and promised to get back to me. In the entry, I
suggested it was possible she was busy entertaining the guests whose car was
parked out front.
The car with London plates.
That's why the car I spotted during my walk caught my attention. I have seen
it before. I didn't write down the number two days ago, but two separate
visitors from London visiting a quiet suburb of Liverpool in the middle of
the week? I note the plate now in a new entry just in case I see it again.
If it is the same car and its owner is visiting Lillian, it seems strange
that they would be parked a half a block away today when there is nothing
preventing them from parking closer. Unless they don't want to be seen. Is
it possible she's having an affair?
My mobile rings, interrupting my thoughts. It is Henry. On video chat. I put
on my best innocent expression and answer.
"Where did you hear that name," he asks, foregoing any greeting. There is
fear and suspicion in his eyes, though the source of such feelings is
unclear.
"I had a memory."
He takes a slow breath and seems to calm a bit. "A memory?"
"Just a flash really. Me saying the name Josh to you. I figured you would be
able to provide context."
He licks his lips and glances somewhere past the screen. "It was my name,"
he says hesitantly. "Josh Amberley."
"Why are we both using assumed names?"
He draws himself up a bit and nods, as if giving himself permission to
answer. "In the desk in my study, top drawer, there is a memory stick. The
contents will explain everything."
"A memory stick?" Of course, I already know the gravity of what I will find
on the memory stick, if not the specifics, but I must preserve the innocence
of my query.
"Just...read it. Don't talk to anyone or do anything until after you've read
it."
Intriguing. Certainly seems to corroborate my entry about a dangerous killer
I can't know about until Josh can explain the details of the case - or
apparently tell me where he has hidden them.
"Will." My attention snaps back to the phone and I realize I had drifted, my
mind already halfway to his study. "How are you feeling?"
Right. Symptoms of withdrawal. I do a quick inventory and determine that -
aside from a slight twinge behind my right eye - I am not suffering any
symptoms yet. "I'm fine," I say. "Took Grace for a walk after breakfast. She
went further than my notes say she did yesterday. Almost the whole block."
I hear a thump from the next room before I am finished as Grace - responding
to either her name or the word "walk" - comes to investigate.
"All right. Well. I have to get back to work. Call me later?"
My attention is torn from the screen as Grace's front paws land on my leg. I
reach to pat her as I give a distracted "mmm."
"Is that Gracie?"
"Yes."
"Put her on screen a moment."
I hesitate a moment, shooting him my best look of disapproval. Then,
figuring it can't harm anything, I hold the phone up so he can see her.
"Gracie, be a good girl for me and keep an eye on your dad. Make sure he
doesn't do anything daft."
I feel my eyes rolling without any conscious effort. Grace cocks her head at
the sound of my husband's voice and woofs when he finishes his instructions.
"Don't look at me like that," he says as I turn the camera back on myself.
"You'd be surprised how much she understands."
I don't argue with him. This entire exchange has obviously put him at ease
again, so it wasn't a waste.
"Call me," he repeats and I nod. "I love you."
Not knowing how to respond to this, I nod again and he rings off. The fact
that I have difficulty responding to my husband's affections is a recurring
theme in both versions of my journal and it seems I have recently begun to
feel guilt over it.
Love is a construct. A label we use to define the sentiments we feel toward
others. The bonds of friendship, family and sexual partners. The way he
looks at me, I have no doubt my husband loves me. 'Maybe one day I will
be able to reciprocate,' I rather uncharacteristically noted days ago.
Oh. That was in the possibly edited journal, wasn't it? Does it sound
uncharacteristic because I altered it later when I was in an uncertain
mental state or because it was actually written by Henry?
I am still scratching Grace's ear. I look down at her contented face. "Want
to help me search his study?"
She responds by running into the living room to fetch a toy, immediately
challenging Henry's claims about her intelligence.
---
A search of Henry's study turns up very little of any interest. The
furniture is sparse and the only personal item on his barely used desk is a
copy of the honeymoon photo in front of the Eiffel Tower in a frame.
Obviously his laptop is with him at work, as is the large bag that typically
occupies the bottom drawer. A change of clothes so he can go to the gym
after work or during lunch maybe?
I open the drawer containing the memory stick last. It also contains a small
ball of string, a needle and two vials. One of the vials is unmarked. The
other has a label identifying it as a combination sedative and antiemetic.
Likely what he uses when my withdrawal symptoms become severe, as my notes
indicate has happened twice just in this past week. The other vial must
contain the drug itself. I take both vials to my study and prepare sample
slides using my limited lab supplies, leaving them in an envelope marked
"for Lillian". I can ask her to test them when she is not distracted by her
mystery visitor.
I return the vials to Henry's desk and take the stick to the kitchen,
turning on the kettle before settling back at my laptop.
An hour later, I realize I have completely forgotten about the kettle.
The drive contains all the data on the killer I alluded to in my journal - a
former spy turned psychopath who claims to have murdered nearly a dozen
people, disguising their deaths as accidents or suicides. He even claimed to
have killed John, but I officially disproved this allegation earlier this
week when I realized his description of the murder didn't match the accident
report.
A headache is beginning to form behind my right eye and I have no idea if it
is caused by the strain of trying to piece all this data into something
coherent or if it is simply the first sign of withdrawal.
I need to filter out the distractions. If it were anytime other than winter,
I could actually perform some of the beekeeping I've been fabricating in my
journal. But the fact that Henry obviously knows so little about beekeeping
that he doesn't question how I am able to draw honey in early February is at
least useful data.
This is when I usually turn to drugs. But if I am already on a narcotic,
taking anything stronger than paracetamol could be dangerous. We probably
don't have any other drugs in the house for that very reason if Henry trusts
me alone in it all day. This line of deduction leads me to question how I
would go about purchasing something illicit. I check the contents of my
wallet and find a small amount of cash and a bank card in both of our names.
Clever. I cannot withdraw enough money to purchase illicit drugs without him
noticing. No doubt the bank would alert him straight away so he could stop
me before I could take them. This also explains how I got the cash to
purchase the honey.
I have no driver's license - for medical reasons as I have documented in my
notes - but even if I had one, we only have one car and Henry drives it to
work. I also have an EHIC card and a directive making Henry responsible for
any necessary medical decisions should I be incapable of making them myself.
No doubt, I have made the same arrangements as I did last time I went into
hiding to dismantle Moriarty's network. If my condition becomes grave,
Mycroft has an advance directive to step in should my brain cease to
function.
I find the violin in my study and run through all the pieces I have so
committed to muscle memory that I can play them without thought to fingering
or bow movements, creating a sort of white noise to drown out everything
else so I can think clearly.
Eight months ago, I was in a car accident. This much I am certain of, even
if everything else since that moment is corrupted by lies and paranoia. The
accident caused a concussive blow that left a scar on the top left side of
my skull. This likely resulted in symptoms of memory loss in the immediate
aftermath of the accident, but NOT a rare and persistent form of amnesia.
Regardless of who or how or why, by the time I had fully recovered from the
initial trauma, I was addicted to a specially designed narcotic that wipes
my memories of the past day. I have made unsuccessful attempts at taking
myself off the drug since, each time resulting in dangerous withdrawal
symptoms that reinforce the need to slowly decrease the dosage over time - a
treatment plan Henry has ensured I will follow.
I stop playing midway through the second verse of Amazing Grace as a thought
occurs to me. Gruener isn't real. He can't be. The timing of the case - all
the details - are too perfect, as if it were deliberately designed to be
unsolvable until my detox is complete.
Of course, I could be wrong. As long as I have doubts about his existence, I
cannot afford to risk the lives of the people I am ostensibly protecting by
faking my death and going into hiding. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. John. Rosie.
No, not John. Mary. John is dead. Isn't he? Why do I remember speaking to
him recently?
Mind palace. Right.
I return the violin to its case and return to the kitchen, starting the
kettle again. I stand in front of the tea cabinet contemplating the box of
drug-laced herbal for a while. They look like average, store bought teabags,
except the bag and string attaching the generic paper tab are of a somewhat
different quality.
Oh.
After another hour of searching, deductions and examination of all the teas
in the cupboard, I find all the evidence I need to prove that Henry has
drugged the herbal tea I already suspected of being drugged and ONLY that
tea. I find a package of empty cloth tea bags, blank paper tabs and more of
the string I found in his office drawer in the laundry where he uses the
iron to seal the bags after he has laced their contents. No doubt the drug
is in the unmarked vial in his desk.
I no longer need the results of Lillian's test to confirm either which tea
is drugged or what it is drugged with, but hopefully her results can provide
specifics. I send her an email instructing her to focus on the sample number
matching the herbal in my notes and tell her I have collected an undiluted
sample of the substance as well should she need it. I detail all of this in
the journal on the memory stick.
Or course, having this part of the case that has become my existence solved
doesn't really change anything. I can only go two, perhaps three days
without dosing before risking dangerous withdrawal. That cost doesn't seem
to outweigh the benefit of an extra day or two of memory retention. Which
explains why I needed to invent the Gruener case to keep my mind occupied.
Assuming I am correct in that conclusion.
I debate how I should handle this new discovery for a while. Should I
confront Henry with this? Would he accept my word that I will cooperate
fully in the treatment plan?
Probably not. Even I wouldn't believe myself capable of making good on such
a promise. At any rate, it is entirely likely that I have already tried this
strategy if my entry from the official journal two days ago is any
indication. I noted that I became sick and that Henry, when he came home
from work, gave me a massage and a cup of tea that seemed to help. This part
of the day is absent from my hive journal, but the entry for that day has
data from my tests to determine which teas might be drugged, so I must have
known the tea was drugged and still willingly consumed it.
I return all the tea and various paraphernalia to its proper place and make
myself a cup of Ceylon - now confirmed to be safe. I can afford to skip a
dose today. I consider wetting a bag of the herbal and tossing it in the bin
in case Henry checks to make sure I have dosed when he comes home. Does he
check?
I decide it is best if I don't do anything that could compromise the data.
If I convince Henry I have consumed the drug and I don't lose my memory as
expected he could become suspicious. I could always pretend to lose my
memory, but that act would only hold until the withdrawal symptoms start and
would likely accomplish nothing but betray his trust in me.
There is another option, I realize. I don't have to fight it. I could drink
the tea and avoid the withdrawal. I have planted enough clues to lead me
back to the discoveries I have made today. And if I don't...would it be so
terrible if I took a day or two off? Whether I recover all the data or not
won't change the fact that I am not well enough to abandon the course of
treatment that seems to be working so far.
I don't have to decide yet. I can gather more data. Try to determine whether
Gruener is real or just a lie to keep my mind occupied.
I return to my laptop in the kitchen and begin searching for Josh Amberley.
---
"What are you saying here," John asks, frowning at the pages strewn over the
table in 221b. "You think Josh Amberely is another alias?"
"The data on him is just as incomplete as the data I've found on Henry
Peters." I fish the documents from the pile. "Birth certificate. University
degree. Nothing in between."
"What were you expecting? A report from a primary school teacher?"
I groan. "No, but there must be something. Census data. The
obituaries for his parents if they are, in fact, deceased."
"You know, if this Gruener person is real, it would make sense for Henry to
still keep his real name from you."
I blink at John. "Go on."
"You are afraid that any investigations you attempt directly could attract
his attention, right? So you must believe he is watching anyone you might
try to contact."
"If that were true he would have caught me out by now. Even if I'm using an
unknown mobile there must be a pattern of calls that anyone as smart as
Gruener gives any impression of being could take as proof of my continued
existence."
"Are you calling them? Are you sure?"
This thought brings me to an abrupt stop. Aside from the recent entry in my
journal where I called Mycroft while in a fit of withdrawal fueled
hallucination and prompted him to call Henry, there is no evidence I have
spoken to anyone in London in the past week at least. Texted, yes, but how
can I be certain of the identity of the person texting me? I delete phone
numbers from my memory once I have them stored in the contacts on my phone -
no sense wasting valuable storage space in my mind - so I would trust that I
had programmed them correctly. But what if I didn't?
"Of course," I murmur. "In order for the plan to work, everyone,
with the obvious exception of Mycroft, must believe I am dead."
John scratches his eyebrow. "But if no one is on the other end of the
line...who is responding? You can't be doing it yourself."
"The only other people who know I'm alive are Mycroft and..."
"Henry."
"Of course. He and Mycroft are communicating with each other. How could I
have missed that?"
"Maybe you didn't. There are several gaps in your journals. Who knows how
many details you have forgotten?"
I pick up my wedding ring and take another stab at deciphering the
inscription. It is mostly illegible squiggles, but the initials T.S. are
clear. "T.S. is his real name," I say confidently. "It must be. The J and A
must stand for Josh Amberley. The G would most logically be Gruener. Or the
J is something else entirely and the A and G are Andrew Gruener, but that
doesn't make any sense. Why would I put Gruener's name on my ring?"
"You're assuming they're all initials because of the first two letters,"
John says. "What if it's really a sentence?"
I consider this possibility for a moment. It might explain the odd number of
letters, but it is just too inefficient and random considering all the other
methods of storing data that I have at my disposal. It seems far more likely
I am simply keeping track of my husband's identities here and this is all I
have discovered so far. "No, you were right the first time. I solved the
mystery at least once already. I ruined our cover and we had to take a new
identity."
'William,' Moriarty said days ago right in this room of my mind
palace. 'Scott? What are you calling yourself these days?'
I sigh. "All of this just proves that Gruener must be real."
"Does it?"
Moriarty's voice startles me and I look up to find he has replaced John when
I was wasn't looking. No doubt he was summoned unconsciously by my line of
thinking.
"I mean, come on," he snorts. "A criminal mastermind nobody else has ever
seen or spoken to who commits murders so perfect nobody even suspects they
are murders?"
"Jealous?"
Moriarty smirks. "Maybe. But you'll always come crawling back." He leans
forward, elbows on the table. "Just for fun let's say he is real. How did he
threaten that detective friend of yours? Your landlady? Your boyfriend?
Must've been very convincing to make you go to this much trouble to hide
from him."
I emerge from my Mind Palace to find my hand has curled into a tight fist
around my ring. I uncurl my fingers slowly, inspecting the damage done by my
nails digging into my palm. The skin isn't broken. I shake off the residual
annoyance and slip the ring back on my finger.
The Gruener file is still open on my laptop. I scroll to one of the more
detailed murders he described to me - a man he coerced into committing
suicide. He had described in graphic detail the slow, excruciating method he
would use to kill the man's wife while he watched helplessly. And when the
man finally accepted that his desperate pleas for mercy were falling on
unsympathetic ears - that his wife would only be safe so long as he
sacrificed himself - Gruener had watched him put the gun into his mouth and
pull the trigger.
Gruener knew my reputation. He must have known the lengths I had already
gone to to stop Moriarty from hurting the people I care about. And this is
why he doesn't believe I am really dead now. Why he is waiting. Monitoring
everyone I am protecting by going into hiding in case I make the mistake of
trying to contact them.
Or trying to research their real identities.
It is still possible that my original theory is correct and Gruener is
merely a figment of my imagination designed to keep me distracted during my
convalescence and improve my odds of actually recovering. It would be simple
enough to prove whether or not he exists. But if I'm wrong... Letrade, Mrs.
Hudson, John's family, Molly, my parents and who knows how many of Henry's
friends and family could be at risk.
Does he have anyone he's protecting? He must have somebody other than me.
'How did he threaten your boyfriend?'
My thoughts stall again. Did Gruener threaten him the same way he did that
victim's wife? No, I can't possibly have formed such a close bond with him
in so short a time that Gruener would think he could use him against me. And
yet...the thought of something happening to him as a result of my actions
evokes a feeling of dread tinged faintly with nausea. It is a familiar
feeling. Nearly identical to the one I had when Moriarty threatened John.
Not exactly, of course, as my memories of our time together are broken,
fleeting or entirely erased. If anything happened to him, my grief would
only last as long as my memory of him.
What a horrifying thought. That all the months spent building a connection
to another person could be severed so easily.
My phone rings, breaking me from my thoughts. It is Henry.
"Did you find the memory stick," he asks immediately.
"Yes."
"How are you holding up?" There is genuine concern in his voice.
"They all believe I'm really dead, don't they? Lestrade. My parents.
Everyone but you and Mycroft."
I hear his breath catch and wish for a moment that I'd waited to ask
questions until I could see his face. "Yes," he says finally.
"What is your real name?"
"Look, we shouldn't do this over the phone. My last appointment for today
cancelled, so...let me just finish up this paperwork and I can come home
early."
Of course. That makes sense. And if I wait then I will be able to read his
face as I ask my questions. "Fine."
"I'll see you in a bit, darling," he says softly. "I love you."
He hangs up before I can respond again. He doesn't expect a return of his
sentiments.
I shake off the feeling of unease that realization leaves me with. I need to
get back to work. I need to finish the entry in the secret journal so I can
return the stick to the hive.
---
I am waiting on the sofa when Henry returns from work. Grace awakens
instantly at the sound of the door latch and vacates her spot beside me to
greet him.
A minute later his hand rests gently on my shoulder and he presses a kiss to
my head, carefully avoiding my scar. "Hello, darling," he murmurs.
I look up and wait for his eyes to catch the screen of my open laptop,
sitting on the table in front of me, watching for a reaction.
After I returned the stick with the secret journal to the hive and let Grace
out again, I decided to try verifying that the numbers programmed into my
mobile were incorrect. Searches for all of them returned results of
"unlisted mobile number", which wasn't really surprising for some of them.
But then I got the same result when I searched for John's office number.
Figuring the doctor the clinic hired to replace him probably wouldn't bother
to change the number, I searched for clinics in the vicinity of the flat
he'd shared with Mary (I couldn't remember the name of it) and pulled up
their contact page. John Watson was still listed as one of their physicians.
Eight months is a long time to neglect to update your staff page. Unless, of
course, there's nothing to update.
This is the page I still have on the screen.
I watch Henry's expression shift as he reads John's name and phone number,
going from surprise to a controlled sort of fear. "Did you call this
number?"
"And reveal that I'm not dead? No. I just wanted to confirm that you knew
about this. Obviously you did."
He closes the laptop and sits on the table facing me. "I can explain," he
begins weakly.
"You don't need to. Obviously John is alive, but the only way to insure I
didn't ruin my cover by trying to contact him was to make me believe he was
dead. I laid out enough evidence to convince myself that he died in the
accident before we went into hiding."
He blinks, surprised. "You're not upset?"
"Why would I be?"
The tension in his body eases a bit.
"Was Gruener's claim of murdering him based on a threat or did I invent it
entirely?"
"You ah...you never told me what he said exactly. But you were convinced he
was responsible for Mary's death."
My mind trips over these words. For a moment I think I must have misheard
him. "Mary?"
"She died about four months after your accident. The details of her death
were kept secret, but unofficially she was killed by a former fellow
operative."
"But Gruener claimed credit?"
"Supposedly he told you he tipped off the operative. It doesn't really match
his usual style, but the timing was too convenient."
It doesn't matter if it was a set up or simply convenient timing, I realize.
I couldn't afford to take the risk that he would come after John. I couldn't
risk Rosie losing both of her parents, or worse, becoming collateral damage.
That's why the plan is different - more elaborate - this time.
"What did Gruener threaten to do to you?"
Henry looks surprised by this question and I wonder if I've ever thought to
ask it before. Have I never considered whether he had become important
enough to me for Gruener to threaten? "I ah...I don't know. You never said."
"But obviously you believed he was a threat to you if you won't even tell me
your real name."
Henry becomes visibly uncomfortable and rubs his palms along the tops of his
thighs as if he is wiping sweat on his trousers. "I think I could use some
tea. Would you like a cup?"
Does he realize I haven't dosed yet or is this simply a distraction? "No, I
just had one."
He nods, then gets up and goes to the kitchen without another word.
Definitely a distraction.
I follow him and stand in the doorway watching him start the kettle and
retrieve a bag of Ceylon from the cupboard. His movements are mechanical and
he is clearly lost in thought. He is afraid, but for reasons that are more
varied and complicated than I previously suspected.
"I'm sorry, I..."
"Don't!" He turns to face me, his eyes bright. "Don't you dare apologize.
You have nothing to be sorry for."
The words hang in the air. I fall silent. After a moment, unsure of anything
else I can do, I cross the room and take him in my arms. He clings to me
tightly, burying his nose in my hair.
"I love you," he murmurs.
"I know."
He makes a tiny sound somewhere between a laugh and a hiccough and
straightens so he can look into my eyes. His gaze is full of wonder, love
and something like dread.
"I won't let him hurt you," I vow.
He makes the noise again and cups the back of my neck.
"But that's not the part you're afraid of, is it," I deduce. "You're afraid
I will leave you once my condition improves and Gruener is no longer a
threat. You're afraid I will go back to London. Back to John."
His breathing shallows. His pupils constrict. I feel his muscles tighten
slightly. A common physiological response to stress commonly referred to as
fight or flight.
The kettle whistles and he jumps, twisting out of my arms to switch it off.
His hands are surprisingly steady as he pours out a cup. He takes a deep
breath and turns to face me again.
"I don't believe in marriage," I continue before he has a chance to speak.
"I have always seen love as a chemical defect. Romantic love especially. But
after everything I've seen today - everything I've read...even though I know
our relationship was established on a foundation of lies, I cannot deny that
I am forming an attachment." No, don't phrase it like that. "I'm...I think
I'm falling in love with you."
He is still for a moment. Not breathing. As if he isn't quite certain he
heard me right. Then he is kissing me so forcefully our lips immediately
begin to bruise. I back him against the counter, pinning him bodily and he
gasps into my mouth, squirming as my hips grind against his. I cup his arse,
pulling him tighter against me, and abandon his lips to attack his throat,
feeling the vibration of his moan as his hands tangle in my hair.
A bark from the kitchen doorway pierces the heated fog muddling my brain.
I bite back a groan and mutter "ignore it."
"When did you have her out last," he gasps as I nip the soft skin behind his
earlobe.
"She's fine."
As if to contradict me directly, Grace barks again, this time more
insistently.
I grit my teeth as Henry pushes me away with a soft "I'll take care of it."
I think I should object, but I'm not sure I'm up to walking quite yet. Not
that he's faring much better, I realize with a swell of pride as he stumbles
a little on his way out of the kitchen.
By the time he returns, I've calmed and remembered to take the sodden tea
bag from his cup. I meet him at the door with it and we settle on the sofa.
"My name was Thomas."
Was. Past tense. "Thomas what," I prod.
He shakes his head. "I can't bear to say it anymore. Too many bad memories."
He takes a sip of his tea. "Not that it was his fault, really. My ex. He was
schizophrenic. I didn't know...we didn't know until after we'd been
married." He fingers the seam of his trousers absently. "He was a perfect,
loving husband. But sometimes he would lash out. Hit me. Strangle me." He
clears his throat. "One day he became convinced I was some sort of spy sent
to seduce him. He got hold of a knife." His fingers twitch toward the scar I
know is hidden beneath his clothing unconsciously. "I know you probably have
a version of that story in your notes. An explanation for the scar you can
see. But I've never told you about the other scar. The one that's hidden.
The one he gave me when he threatened to castrate me."
I wince instinctively.
"He said it wouldn't make any difference, really. That I could still seduce
unwitting men who were looking for a pretty mouth or a tight arse to fuck."
The words are flat, unemotional, as if he is describing the event with the
clinical detachment of an observer and not a participant. It is not an
uncommon method of coping with trauma.
Nor is lying and refusing to talk about it. I was right. He is hiding his
past from me to protect himself. Not just from the possible threat of
Gruener, but from a painful past he would rather not relive every day for my
benefit. I can't blame him for that.
"That was when I realized I had to leave him. That if I didn't, he would
eventually kill me." He licks his lips and takes a sip of his tea. "I
changed my name...joined the MSF...made a new life for myself. I found out
years later that he'd died of a heart attack. It was strange. When I saw the
report - the confirmation of his death - I felt nothing. Anger, sadness,
grief...nothing. It was like he was a stranger and not the man I had once
loved. You're right. I'm not afraid Gruener will hurt me. But I am terrified
of losing you. And yes, part of that fear has to do with John, but...a week
ago I lost a patient to injuries from a car accident and I was reminded of
how easily I could lose you." He takes a deep breath, sets his mostly empty
cup on the table and turns toward me, gathering my hands in his and looking
me in the eye. His hands are warm from holding the cup. "Will, darling, you
should know there's something else I've been lying to you about. You don't
have amnesia."
Well, I guess I won't have to find a way to bring that up after all. "I
know. The drug is making me forget."
He nods, relaxing slightly. He isn't surprised I have figured this out.
"Then you know the risks of withdrawal. I have been reducing the dosage, but
the more you improve, the more you refuse to take it. As much as it pains me
to watch you worry that you are losing your mind, the possibility that I
could lose you terrifies me even more."
Maybe I should have let him make me the herbal. Allowed myself to forget.
What will happen when it comes time for me to take my evening "dose" and
what are the possible repercussions of that decision tomorrow morning? I
consider revealing that I know the drug is in the tea, but I don't want to
lose this small bit of control I have gained over my circumstances. Maybe I
can convince him to let me skip a pill. Just one. Then I will find a way to
recover the memory stick and put as much information on it as I can before I
take the actual drug tomorrow.
I cradle his face in my hands gently. I cannot assuage his fears entirely.
Withdrawal is dangerous and possibly deadly. But I can do something about
his fear that I will leave him of my own volition. I kiss him softly, gently
massaging his lips with mine. He melts into it easily, allowing me to take
the lead, parting his lips at the slightest prodding of my tongue.
"Show me," I whisper into his mouth before my hands go to his belt, deftly
undoing it and the trousers beneath. He lifts his hips obediently so I can
drag his trousers and pants down to the tops of his thighs. Then he takes my
hand and wordlessly guides my fingers to a spot just to the right of his
cock. 'His ex was left handed,' I note. The texture of the skin is
different, but it is difficult to discern much beneath the coarse pubic
hair.
I slide to the floor between his knees and lean closer, gently parting the
hair with my fingers until I can see the small scar. Not that I really
needed the confirmation of his story. I press my lips to the scar, then to
the base of his cock. He makes a breathy sort of groaning noise and his head
drops to the back of the sofa.
I tease him for a while - kissing and rubbing my lips gently up and down the
growing erection, lapping delicately at the head. His hand tangles in my
hair, but he doesn't attempt to guide me. I reward his chivalry by taking
the entire head of his cock in my mouth and sucking gently, feeling his
fingers pull a bit as his hands clench involuntarily.
I slowly take him as deep as I can and hum an encouragement. A tiny helpless
noise bursts from him and I feel his hips twitch in my steadying hands. He
won't last much longer.
I find myself wishing I had set my phone to record this so I can see the
look on his face later. So I can have a recording of the restrained noises
he is making. I tug his hips forward a bit and angle my head so I can take
him just a little deeper on the next downstroke.
"Wait," he gasps between ragged breaths.
I ignore him.
"Will..." He grasps my shoulders, squeezing. "I'm gonna come..."
I tighten my grip, swirl my tongue around the head of his cock and take him
as deep as I am able, humming softly. 'Yes,' I think. 'I want you to.'
His fingers tighten almost painfully when he comes, the strangled, surprised
sounds of pleasure making my own cock stir lazily. I manage to swallow his
emissions without choking and gentle my ministrations as he goes soft.
Finally, I am able to look up at his face. It is slack and serene. His eyes
are closed. I crawl up onto the sofa, straddling his lap and reclaim his
pliant lips. His breath catches in surprise - either at my forcefulness or
the taste of his own semen on my tongue. His hands cup my arse possessively,
fingers kneading the muscle.
"Just give me a moment," he murmurs into my mouth between kisses. "To catch
my breath...and I will...return the favor."
"I want to fuck you until you come again," I growl. I lick his lower lip and
feel a shudder go through him.
"Might need...more than a minute then," he says with a laugh.
I flex my gluteal muscles, rolling my hips in his hands pointedly and he
whimpers.
"Can we have dinner first?"
"Not hungry."
"Well, I am." He releases my arse and pushes me back with both hands on my
chest until our eyes meet. "I promise I'll make it worth the wait."
I am not a patient man. My instinct is to insist he can eat later and drag
him up to the bedroom. But I can also recognize when anticipation can make
the reward more satisfying. If I can hold off for a couple hours, he will
have time to recover and be gasping for it again. Maybe I can even make sure
Grace is settled so she won't interrupt us.
I slide from his lap, give him time to fix his clothing and hold out a hand
to help him up.
He straightens and drapes his arms over my shoulders, kissing me reverently.
"Thank you," he murmurs and I know he doesn't just mean for agreeing to his
compromise or even for the orgasm. He is thanking me for staying. For not
being angry with him at finding out John's death was a lie. For accepting
all of the deception. For still desiring him so much that he had to beg me
to be civilized and wait instead of just dragging him to bed like a caveman.
I rest my hands on his hips and nod slightly and our faces are so close to
each other that it causes my nose to bump softly against his. "Thank you," I
say, carefully inflecting it with my own meaning. Thank you for telling me
even though it obviously terrifies you. Thank you for desiring me in a way
I'm pretty sure nobody else ever has before. Thank you for taking care of
me.
He nuzzles my face a bit, running his nose along mine in a way that is so
intimate that it makes my breath hitch slightly. Then he pulls away, his
hands brushing my chest as he drops them from my shoulders, picks up his cup
and heads for the kitchen.
---
He turns his back on me long enough during dinner that it is easy for me to
slip the tablet he gives me into my pocket. Too easy. It is probably a bad
idea for me to be taking advantage of his trust like this, but I don't want
to drink the drugged tea and I can't think of a better solution.
I walk Grace again after dinner, hoping all the activity today will wear her
out so she'll sleep. The car I saw earlier is gone, which quite possibly
confirms my theory about Lillian having an affair as her lover would have
fled before her husband returned home from work.
There is another possibility, however, that merits discussing this with
Henry. I would think anyone who had successfully tracked me down meaning to
do me harm wouldn't be spending this much time on surveillance, but I cannot
be certain.
I find him in the bedroom, already stripped down to his skivvies and turning
down the bedsheets.
"How much do you know about Lillian Taylor?"
He frowns. "Not a lot. You've spent far more time with her than I have.
Why?"
"There was a car parked at the curb in front of her house two days ago. I
think I may have seen the same car today parked 'round the corner. The most
likely explanation is that she's having an affair, but there's nothing in my
notes to suggest I've picked up on that before."
Henry's muscles have stiffened. "Is the car still there?"
"No. Only this afternoon. Nobody was inside it, so it seems unlikely it has
anything to do with Gruener, but I can't rule out the possibility..."
He takes a deep breath and seems to force himself to relax. "No. It's
probably just a coincidence. Or you're right about Lillian having an affair.
I don't really know anything about her." He shakes his head slightly, then
brushes past me abruptly, disappearing into the bath.
'There's something he's not telling me,' I think. He is obviously unsettled.
I knock softly on the door before I open it. He is standing over the sink,
braced on hands that are damp from having just splashed water on his face.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror.
"We knew this couldn't last forever," he says softly. "When we devised this
plan...faked our deaths...we knew that we would be found eventually." He
straightens and turns toward me. His eyes are pained, haunted. "I'm tired of
running. Hiding. Of having to lie to you. Of living in constant fear of
being discovered."
His body language bears out his words. There is an exhaustion in him that is
not physical. He is feeling the strain of maintaining this life built on a
foundation of deceit.
"You think it's possible we've been discovered?"
"No," he says rather unconvincingly. "No, I don't think this is Gruener," he
adds with more conviction. "You could be right about Lillian having an
affair." He chuckles lightly. "In fact, I'm relieved to hear you say that
you suspect there is someone else because I once feared you might be the one
she was having an affair with."
This stuns me. "Why would I be having an affair with Lillian?"
"You've been spending a lot of time together. She's beautiful. Smart.
Uncomplicated. I would probably be attracted to her myself if I was
bisexual."
Like I am, he means.
"I know," he says hurriedly before I have a chance to respond. "I know it's
an offensive stereotype to think bisexuals can't be monogamous or are
incapable of resisting temptation, but...I also know you didn't exactly
choose me."
A piece of the puzzle clicks into place in my mind. He doesn't simply fear I
will leave him once I am recovered. He expects me to leave him. For Lillian,
for John, for the work...it doesn't matter. Someone - or possibly several
someones - has led him to believe himself unworthy of happiness. Unlovable.
Undesirable.
I have been trying to understand - in both versions of my journal - why he
is willing to put up with so much. Why he would volunteer to give up so much
for someone who cannot even return the sentiments he offers so freely. He
never expected anything of me. He has contented himself with the belief that
any reciprocation of his sentiments is simply not possible.
I step closer, until there is hardly any space left between us, and I gently
cup his face in my hands. He holds perfectly still, the apprehension
practically radiating from him as I delicately trace the edge of the fading
bruise beneath his eye with my thumb. The evidence of my having lashed out
at him in a fit of delusion brought on by withdrawal. I think of the photo
in my journal of a similar bruise on my face and my suspicions that he had
been responsible despite my repeated convictions that he would never hurt me
intentionally.
There is so much still going on here that I don't fully understand. Now that
I have regained some control over my condition, I might finally have time to
work it all out. To get myself clean so I can take down Gruener and
eliminate the need for all the deception entirely. To assuage my husband's
fear that I will leave him once the dust settles and I am free of my
dependency on the drug he has to trick me into taking so I won't do exactly
the sort of thing I am doing.
I kiss him softly, slowly, feeling his breath spill out in sharp, uneven
exhales between each individual meeting of our lips. "I am choosing you
now," I whisper.
He trembles faintly and a tiny, breathy sound escapes him. He leans into me
as I grow bolder, kissing him more deeply, running my tongue along his and
moans as I pull him tightly against me, pressing my hips into his so he can
feel the beginnings of my erection. He fumbles to loosen my trousers and
then his hand is sliding into my pants and wrapping around my cock.
"Do you still want to fuck me," he asks between hungry kisses and panting
breaths.
I have a brief impulse to simply tear his pants off, bend him over the
counter and have him right here. 'He would probably let me,' I think. But I
haven't been patiently waiting since I sucked him off on the couch for
something so hasty and primitive. In fact, I think as I draw his hand from
my pants with a firm grip around his wrist, I know just what I want.
---
I take my time exploring his body, hoping that my mobile has sufficient
memory to capture all of this. Now that I know I will remember this
tomorrow, I make mental notes to properly file later of what works and what
doesn't. What makes him moan, what makes him sigh, what makes him squirm
away from me.
His body is yielding to me, opening easily, so I am not too concerned about
the fact that his cock is not yet erect. I have been rather avoiding it
after all. But he seems distracted.
He whimpers as I slip a lubed finger inside him. My other hand is pressing
his knee up and back and I feel the muscles in his thigh tighten beneath my
lips.
"Is this still all right," I murmur between soft kisses trailing up further
until I am at the crease of his hip.
"Y...yes..."
"Are you sure?" I press my lips to his still mostly soft penis.
"Yes," he says firmly. He rocks his hips into my hand, forcing my fingers
deeper and at an angle that brings them into fuller contact with his
prostate. His cock twitches a bit. "Yes, please. Please..."
He allows me to maneuver him into position without complaint. I take a
moment to admire the sight of him on his hands and knees, pressing his
rounded arse enticingly back toward me, before slicking my cock and pushing
inside as slowly as I can bear, feeling his body not just accept the
intrusion, but welcome it eagerly.
"Oh...Will," he sighs, rocking back to meet my thrusts.
Pleasurable as this is, it is not quite what I had in mind. I wrap my arm
around his waist and coax him back with me as I sit on my heels. It is
awkward for a moment as he tries to balance on my lap without causing me to
slip out, but then he sinks back into me, his head tipping back onto my
shoulder. Our height difference is effectively all in his long legs, but he
still has to arch his back a bit.
I chose this position partly for its efficiency. My hands are free to
explore his body, although for now I am simply holding him to me as he grows
accustomed to the penetration. Another reason I chose it is because, for all
the access I have to his body, he has little access to mine. He cannot
distract me. He cannot even get enough leverage to thrust. I am in near full
control of him. He groans and his hand comes up to tangle in my hair as I
bury my face into the exposed column of his throat. I move languidly,
rolling our hips as if we are slow dancing to music only we can hear. I am
barely moving inside him, but it is just enough to create a gentle friction.
I keep him steady with my left arm and run my right palm along the inside of
his thigh, feeling the muscles twitch beneath his skin.
"Is this all right," I ask in a low voice, my lips brushing his ear.
He shudders, audibly bites back a whimper and nods. He grips the arm wrapped
around his waist, grounding himself, and leans into me, allowing me to guide
his movements.
"So deep," he whispers. "I can almost feel you at the back of my throat."
"Ridiculous exaggeration," I mutter, though his words make me instinctively
try to grind just a bit deeper. My efforts are rewarded when he makes a
helpless little noise and reaches for my right hand as it reaches the apex
of his thighs, his fingers gripping my wrist tightly.
"Slow," he pants.
I swallow a groan and force myself to go slower. I cup his balls gently,
rolling them in my palm, and feel his hips twitch. I look down at his cock,
pleased to see it now hard and bobbing with each languid thrust. "Are you
going to come for me?"
"Yes." He says it almost like a question. He gasps as I draw my forefinger
up the underside of his cock and moans quietly as I tease him a little
between fingers and thumb, occasionally collecting the moisture beading at
the tip until the head is so wet it is slippery. His hips are still
twitching, but he doesn't thrust. Both of his hands grip my supporting arm
so tight that I think if I wasn't so distracted by the feel of his body
squeezing my cock it would probably hurt.
I want to kiss him, but the angle would make it awkward. On impulse, I press
my fingers - wet with his emissions - into his mouth instead. He sucks
eagerly after only a moment's hesitation, reaching for my wrist so he can
press my fingers deeper, muffling his moans. The image of his lips wrapped
around my fingers, sucking frantically sends a spike of arousal so powerful
through me that I become momentarily dizzy.
I can't hold on anymore.
I shove him to the bed, wincing as my cock slips from him into air that
feels downright cold by contrast. I pull his hips back and push back inside,
thrusting with single-minded determination until the built up pressure
suddenly releases and I am coming. I have barely the presence of mind to try
to stifle the sounds burbling up from my lungs.
I collapse on top of him. He is trembling violently. A small, broken wail
reaches my ears and I realize belatedly that he's coming. His muscles
squeeze around my softening cock, sending little shivery bursts of pleasure
up my spine. I press my lips to his shoulders in sloppy attempts at kisses
as the sound turns to gasping breaths punctuated by small whimpers.
A woof drifts in from the hallway and a grin tugs at my lips. I think I
should be annoyed, but the rush of endorphins is making me giddy.
I stagger from the bed and have just enough presence of mind to grab my
dressing gown before opening the door to reassure Grace.
I get her settled back in her bed and return to the bedroom to find the bed
empty. My mobile is still perched on the side table, forgotten. I snatch it
up and stop the recording that I notice has been going for a rather
impressive amount of time. I'd wager it will be the second longest video I
have saved so far.
I hear water running in the bath and follow the sound, mobile still in hand,
opening the door without even thinking to knock first.
He is washing himself at the sink and I take a moment to appreciate the
sight of his naked body before raising my mobile to snap a photo. I don't
have many candid shots of him and most of them are of an intimate nature -
like this one.
He turns his head as I snap the picture and holds the wet flannel out to me
wordlessly, making me aware of my increasingly sticky and uncomfortable
state. I set the phone on the counter as I accept the cloth, but I become
distracted as I get a closer look at him. His face has been freshly
scrubbed, but his eyes are still red-rimmed and damp. I cup his chin,
tilting his face toward the light to verify. He has been crying.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No! No, darling..." He catches my hands and presses a kiss to my palm. "I
just got a bit emotional."
It isn't all that uncommon. The sudden rush of hormones and chemicals in the
brain caused by orgasm can bring a surge of emotion. But I'm fairly certain
this is more than just a simple chemical reaction.
He must see my doubt because he adds "okay, yes, it stings a bit and I'll
probably be limping tomorrow, but it's nothing to fret about."
A smile tugs at my lips, but I manage to hold it back. I nudge him toward
the sink and kneel behind him. He understands, obediently leaning forward
and spreading his legs a bit. As I suspected, he hasn't gotten to this bit
yet. I prod gently at the swollen aperture. The muscle is still a bit soft
and loose, but there are no visible tears and my prodding only brings forth
a weak trickle of lubricant mixed with semen. No blood.
He gasps and shivers as the fluid spills over my fingers and my cock
twitches lazily in response. I fumble to grab my mobile. There is already a
picture of me that looks very much like this on my laptop and I want this
one to match. On impulse, I gather a bit of fluid on my fingertip and press
it back inside, massaging it into his interior wall. He moans softly and his
muscles clench.
"Shh..." I pull my finger back, toss my mobile back on the counter and set
about wiping away the rest of the residue before just pressing the cool
cloth over the raw skin. I brace him with my other hand on his hip, mindful
of the bruises already there that my fingers fit neatly over, and catch
sight of the glint of my wedding ring in the mirror.
'You are mine.'
I shouldn't find the sight of that arousing. The base response of my
transport to such symbolic markings of ownership should offend me. And I
suppose to an extent they do. Yet somehow it feels right. The instinct to
claim and be claimed isn't repulsive.
Then my eyes meet his in the mirror and for a brief second something clouds
his gaze. A memory or a thought. Something dark and unsettling. And then he
smiles gently and covers my hand with his, the moment forgotten.
Or at least he tries to let it be forgotten.
"What is it," I ask.
He turns and tugs me to my feet, directly into a kiss and I realize we
haven't properly kissed since before we began this latest round of coitus.
It is slow and lingering - as if he is delaying having to answer my
question. When he finally relents, he takes a trembling breath, runs his
thumb over my lips and whispers "I want you to remember, but I couldn't bear
it if I lost you." He takes a shuddering breath. "I've stolen these last
months. Jealously kept you by my side...you shouldn't have to live like
this. You deserve better."
'I love you, my darling. Until my body ceases to draw breath.'
'If anything were to happen to you, my life would be forfeit.'
I have dismissed his overly sentimental statements in my notes as simply the
words of a romantic. But coupled with my deductions earlier tonight and his
near fatalistic statements now...it all stems at least partly from his
feelings of guilt for lying to me and keeping me in my condition. Because if
it weren't for these exact circumstances keeping me from leaving...
"I know how difficult living with me can be. I have been told repeatedly and
explicitly. I don't deserve to have someone like you who not only tolerates
my usual mercurial temperament, but also my inability to even remember you,
much less express my gratitude for your willingness to brave the threat of a
serial killer just to be by my side."
His eyes darken at that last statement, but I disregard it as simply an
instinctive reaction to the reminder of danger.
"I don't 'deserve' to be so loved. I have no desire to leave or do anything
that would compromise our life here."
He stares into my eyes for a moment longer, seemingly debating his next
words, before shaking himself and reaching for the all-but-forgotten flannel
still clutched in my hand. He rinses it and gently, silently, with the
careful touch of a doctor, washes the stickiness from me.
The touch isn't meant to arouse, but my penis stirs lazily anyway. My body
is well accustomed to his touch and responds instinctively despite the
hesitations of my mind.
"Did you take the tablet with dinner," he asks suddenly and I force myself
to focus on his face instead of his hands, though he doesn't look up from
his task. He knows. He knows I haven't dosed, but he doesn't realize I've
uncovered the true source of the drug. I quickly calculate the impact of
either answer and determine that the honest one is likely to do the least
damage.
"No." My voice sounds strained, but then he is cupping my testicles so that
is to be expected.
He nods, looking disappointed yet entirely unsurprised.
"I will take the next dose tomorrow," I promise. "Before the withdrawal sets
in."
He nods again and remains silent, his eyes still focused on the movement of
his hands as he finishes washing me. "I'll just change the sheets on the
bed," he finally says. He looks up and I see something like resignation in
his eyes. He won't argue with me on this. Just as I won't resist tomorrow
when he offers me a cup of the herbal tea. Maybe then I can reveal that I
know it is the true source of the drug. Maybe he will agree to let me have
control over my treatment.
Maybe.
I nod and he gives me one last lingering kiss before leaving me alone in the
bath.
---
I save the new video and photo files to the journal on my laptop. Then,
after locating some headphones so I don't disturb Grace, I watch the video.
I forward to the last bit just before I left the room. From this angle, I
can see his face. I focus on it as he is thrown forward in my race toward
orgasm. His mouth is open, but the only sounds reaching the mobile camera
are harsh breathing and the slick, violent impact of my thrusts. But his
eyes...the way his fingers twist desperately in the sheets...it is a mixture
of fear and arousal. His mouth moves and a low whine I didn't hear earlier
emerges, turning into a strangled cry that is almost drowned out by my
half-swallowed shout when I reach climax.
I collapse then, causing him to collapse as well beneath my weight. He wails
softly and his face - turned toward the camera - contorts in a rictus of
pleasure and pain.
I did hurt him. And that's what got him off, despite neither of us touching
his cock.
I am kissing his shoulders as he comes down, trembling, looking dazed, lost.
And then Grace barks and I roll from him with a laugh and disappear to
reassure her, entirely oblivious to Henry's distress. Completely failing to
notice the tears already flooding his eyes or the way he flinches as I pull
out of him.
I watch now as he struggles to push himself upright. As the tears begin to
spill onto his cheeks. As he lurches from the bed and nearly collapses to
the floor before catching himself and stumbling to the bath.
These new images tumble through my mind, combining with the existing ones
and all the information I have gathered until a new conclusion emerges. The
tears weren't brought on by simple emotional overflow. The pain, coupled
with the sudden and violent orgasm, triggered a memory. A traumatic memory.
A movement out of the corner of my eyes shakes me into the present and I am
surprised to see him standing at the counter, switching on the kettle.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he says as I pull the buds out of my
ears. He holds up the mug. "Chamomile?"
"He wasn't schizophrenic," I blurt out. I may have more than twenty-four
hours to make my conclusions now, but I still don't want to waste them.
"Your ex. You just tell me that because you believe the truth makes you look
weak."
He swallows, sets the cup down. "No," he says softly. "That's not the
reason."
"But I'm right, aren't I?"
He sighs. "Yes, of course you're right." He runs his hand through his hair,
gripping the strands briefly in frustration. "I don't like having this
conversation. I don't like having to relive my life with him. But since you
keep working it out, at least if I say his cruelty stemmed from a disease,
that it was a surprise to both of us, I can pretend I couldn't have
anticipated how bad it would get. That I wasn't stupid enough to stay with a
man who obviously got a sick thrill out of hurting me for three years."
Usually making a correct deduction gives me a momentary thrill, but that
feeling is absent now. Three years.
On the laptop screen I see myself return and pick up the mobile, bringing my
flushed, happy face more fully into frame for a moment before the video
stops. This image - my glaring ignorance in the face of his trauma, spurs me
into action. I cross the room and take him into my arms, shushing him
stupidly as I feel the faint trembling in his body.
"It's all right," he murmurs even as his arms wrap around me and he leans
into the embrace, taking comfort from it. From me. He trusts me even after
this incident and the one that left the faint but still visible bruise
beneath his eye. How many others have there been?
I want to ask for more details, but any answers he could give would serve no
purpose but to satisfy my curiosity. Not enough to justify prying at old
wounds.
The kettle whistles and I unwrap myself just enough so I can reach to unplug
it. I cradle his face in my hands then and wait for his eyes to meet mine.
"You don't have to tell me. But I will write it in my journal because I
believe it would be better if I knew there was a chance of this happening so
I can avoid it."
"You didn't do anything. I was lost in my own head."
Oh. Of course. "You don't want me to know because you don't want me to treat
you like a victim."
He flinches slightly at that. "It's not that simple."
"Then explain it to me."
He sighs and reaches for my hands, pulling them down and clutching them to
his chest. Bracing himself, I think. "I was his submissive. Do you know what
that means?"
I didn't until the case with The Woman. Though I understand there is a great
deal of variation among individuals. "He dominated you sexually."
"It was more than sex, but yes. Essentially. I discovered I enjoyed giving
up control. And a little bit of pain made the pleasure all the more potent.
But his understanding was that the contract I had entered into made me - in
effect - his slave. That my body was his property and I could not deny him
of his rights to it."
My hands tighten within his as I feel a surge of revulsion. "He raped you."
Henry winces. "It took two years for me to realize that what we had was not
a normal, healthy dominant/submissive relationship and another to get up the
courage to leave. I was young and naïve. I loved him and I believed he loved
me." He trails off for a moment as he becomes lost in his memories, then
focuses on me again. "I know you would never hurt me." My eyes flick to the
fading bruise beneath his eye and he quickly adds "not deliberately. I
didn't want to burden you with my past just so you could worry about what
you might do accidentally."
"That's not..."
He lets go of my hand to press two fingers to my lips, silencing my protest.
"What happened tonight was not the result of anything you did. I promise."
"It's about trust," the Woman had purred in my ear as she tied the
knots around my wrists. "You can trust me to test your limits so long as
I can trust you to stop me before I break you."
I shake the memory away and wrap my hand around his wrist, squeezing gently
as I pull his fingers from my lips.
He trusts me. And I have stated in my journal that I trust him. Can I really
blame him for not wanting to dredge up the past? I nod and he relaxes a
little in relief.
"You forgot your chamomile," I note, glancing at the still empty cup.
He laughs softly. "It was for you. I thought since you didn't take the
tablet you could use something to help you sleep."
I look to the cup again and verify that it is, indeed chamomile and not the
drugged herbal. Unless I was wrong and this one is also drugged...
No. He trusts I will take the tablet tomorrow. I can trust that he won't
trick me into dosing before that.
But I still don't want chamomile.
"I have a better idea," I say as an offer he made in a saved message once
comes to mind. "Give me five minutes to finish up here and meet me in the
bedroom."
---
I groan as he digs the heels of his hands into my lower back, taking full
advantage of the music emanating from his mobile just loud enough to cover
any noises that might alarm Grace. I am half hard, but I don't think I could
move to do something about it if I wanted to.
My groans turn deeper, lustier as he moves lower and he leans down to
whisper in my ear.
"Do you want to come?"
"Mmmnot sure," I mumble into the pillow. "Do you?"
"Mmm. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is well spent, I'm afraid."
I can feel his thighs clenching around me each time a noise spills from me,
but the half hearted interest his cock is showing bears out his claim.
He is kneading my backside and every so often he delves in to brush a
teasing finger against my anus, drawing an embarrassing whimper from me.
He moves on, turning his attention to my thighs and I am torn between
frustration and relief. I am undeniably aroused and yet I don't feel the
urgency to chase the release of orgasm.
He works his way steadily down to my feet, until my body is utterly limp and
pliant. Then he orders me to roll onto my back and slowly works his way back
up, carefully avoiding my swollen cock.
"Would you like me to take care of that," he asks softly as he massages my
shoulders and biceps.
Another whimper slips from me. When did I lose control over my transport?
"It's okay, sweetheart. It's perfectly natural. In fact, it's not the first
time you've been aroused while I did this for you."
I open my eyes and focus on him hovering over me - carefully keeping his
pants-covered cock well away from my bare erection. "What did you do about
it last time?"
He smiles. "I made it a really thorough massage. External and internal. Is
that what you would like me to do now?"
I would like to drag him down on top of me, wrap my hand around
both of our cocks and rut against him. But he is too sore and oversensitive
and I have no desire to hurt him anymore than I already have. So I nod
instead.
He retrieves the lotion he has been rubbing into my skin and arranges me
until my legs are spread wide, my hips propped up on a pillow. He rubs my
inner thighs as he kneels between them. "Stay nice and relaxed. That's it.
Let me do all the work."
The first finger slides into me easily and I sigh and force myself to remain
still. He rubs along my interior walls, carefully avoiding my prostate, for
longer than is really necessary before inserting a second finger.
"Stop teasing," I huff.
"Shh."
He continues to move slowly, occasionally brushing against my prostate as if
by accident, until my fingers are twisting in the sheets and I am fighting
the instinct to thrust and get it over with already.
Worth the wait. That was what he said earlier, wasn't it?
The maddening brushes against my prostate become increasingly less
accidental, until he is deliberately brushing it on every in-stroke and
pausing to circle it before retreating again.
I am focusing on my breathing, on swallowing the helpless little noises of
pleasure he is drawing from me as best I can. The music seems to be working,
even if it threatens to be distracting.
I can't take it anymore, I decide, and reach for my cock, emboldened when he
doesn't try to stop me.
His other hand moves from its position braced against my thigh, smoothing
over heated skin, making the muscles beneath twitch. And then the thumb is
pressing into the sensitive spot behind my balls and my back arches
involuntarily.
"That's it," I hear him murmur around the blood rushing in my ears. "Come
for me, my darling."
He bends over me and licks across the tip of my cock before taking the whole
head in his mouth. A startled grunt erupts from me and I immediately abandon
my previous efforts in favor of gripping his head with both hands, my hands
tangling in his hair. I'm sure I am not being as considerate of him as he
was of me earlier, but I am too far gone to control myself.
My eyes try to close to curb the overwhelming amount of sensory data, but I
force myself to keep them open, entranced by the sight of his lips
stretching around me, glistening in the light as they become wet with his
saliva and my emissions.
He moans and I can't hold on anymore. I manage to stutter out a warning just
before I come with a strangled groan, but since I can't bring myself to
release my hold on his head it doesn't serve much purpose.
An orgasm can produce a chemical effect on the brain not all that dissimilar
from drugs - clearing my mind and helping me to focus. I figure this is why
I am currently free of all other recreational habits - the drug Henry is
weaning me from excepted. I have never tried to use sex this way only
because I always found manual stimulation disappointing and messy and the
effort of seeking out a partner tedious.
As my brain comes back online, I take in all the details of my surroundings.
The imperfections in the paint on the ceiling. The beginnings of a spider's
web in one corner. The cloying sound of the pop song drifting from his
mobile. The careful placement of his wristwatch beside it on the bedside
table. The feel of his fingers and mouth continuing to work, gentler now as
I come down from my climax. He stops just as it starts to become
uncomfortable - demonstrating just how attuned to my body he is - and trails
his lips across my quivering abdomen as I catch my breath. I run my fingers
gently over his hair, soothing ruffled strands in apology for tugging them
into disarray moments ago. I feel the vibration of his hum against my skin
more than I hear it.
After a bit, he sits up and reaches for his mobile, mercifully stopping the
noise and listening for any signs of Grace. The house is quiet just long
enough for me to think we may have found a solution. Then an accusatory
"woof" dispels that notion.
Henry gives a sigh of defeat, wipes his hands on the flannel he brought to
bed in preparation, and goes to reassure her.
I roll on my side, listening to his soothing voice drift down the hall as I
come down from the high. The exhaustion that usually follows a really
powerful orgasm is already beginning to creep in, along with the cold as the
sweat dries on my skin.
I pull the covers up to my chin and drift until the mattress dips beneath
Henry's weight as he slips in with me.
"Still awake," he asks softly.
"Mmm," I hum sleepily.
He wraps himself around me, anchoring me with a warm hand splayed across my
chest. He kisses my neck softly and buries his nose in my hair, murmuring
nonsense about how lucky he is and how perfect I am.
I can't be certain, but as I am sliding toward sleep, I think I hear him say
"I love you. No matter what happens...I will always love you."
---
Henry, AKA Thomas
---
I can't sleep. I cannot bear to waste even a moment of whatever time I have
left with you. I cannot bring myself to leave, even though I know I should.
You would forget me, eventually. Even if you do find that second copy of
your journal that I know you're keeping somewhere.
I never meant for it to be like this. I thought if I could just get you away
from him I could convince you to leave. Maybe I could even convince you to
give me a chance to make you happy. You figured out you were being followed
and drew the wrong conclusions.
I've played the accident over and over in my mind. The truck that tried to
pass you far too close to be safe. Your car hitting the tree. The driver
stopping briefly, then panicking when he saw me approach and fleeing. I gave
his license number when I gave the anonymous report, but would his reckless
driving really have caused the accident if you hadn't believed somebody was
after you?
I didn't know you were an addict. He was careful to keep that detail out of
his blog. By the time your concussion abated, you were well on your way to
being addicted to a drug that treated pain and helped you sleep at the price
of your memories.
I should have brought you to hospital and let someone else manage your
treatment. But I am weak. So I lied to you. And I convinced you to lie to
everyone who might take you away from me.
You have never blamed me. Even when I told you everything. About me, about
Gruener, about how you really came to be here. Even when I had to track you
to a bar in Liverpool to explain because you thought I was holding you
hostage and tried to flee. You forgave me. You came back, took the tablet
and vowed it would not happen again. Of course, you forgot soon after and we
had to repeat the cycle. I should have let you leave. I should have made
you leave. But I couldn't bear even the thought of it after experiencing
what it was like to be loved by you, even if you have never said it in so
many words. I thought I was saving you, but it turns out you have saved me.
The deep, even rhythm of your breathing changes a moment before you roll
onto your stomach, away from me.
I have had the privilege of being in a position to watch you sleep for
nearly nine months now - both before and after you allowed me more intimate
privileges - so even though I can only see the back of your head now, I can
readily picture your face in my mind, relaxed in sleep. Beautiful. Innocent.
You would laugh if I said those words in front of you. Neither of us is
innocent.
I trace the scars on your back with my eyes until they disappear beneath the
covers. I was always so careful to avoid scarring my own body. I failed
twice. The rest of my scars are all hidden.
I don't know if I should be relieved or disappointed that you believed the
lie that I was upset because you reminded me of my ex in the heat of the
moment. You could never remind me of him. The truth is I had been reeling
ever since you came to me with your concern that your theory about Lillian
having an affair might possibly be wrong, trying to come up with
explanations for my distress before you reached the correct conclusions on
your own. Because I know that your mysterious car can only mean one thing:
they have found us again.
It has happened before, of course. Nearly five months ago. And when I told
you everything then I thought surely you would leave me. Turn me in to your
brother. Instead, you gave me the stick you had hidden in your violin case
and offered to help insure the deception would work this time. You helped me
resurrect Andrew Gruener and make him the monster he always claimed he
wasn't. We burned our identities, hopped a car through the chunnel and began
our lives as Henry and Will Peters on the continent. I treasure those
"honeymoon" moments most of all, but even then I knew it could never last.
I know if I gave you the choice now, you would do it all over again. But I
cannot let you. I cannot ask you to continue living with me in this gilded
cage. You have already given me eight and a half months - more than I could
ever have hoped for.
I considered hastening the inevitable earlier tonight - contacting your
Detective Lestrade directly - but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I cannot
bear to let you go any sooner than is absolutely necessary. It doesn't
matter. I can't imagine they intend to wait much longer.
You won't be truly free as long as the drug still holds power over you. But
with any luck, you are most of the way to recovery. I will give you all the
information you need to complete it. Without me.
I just hope you can still forgive me.
Notes:
I've probably given Grace some traits of a fourth
dog who absolutely takes instructions to watch over me seriously. I once
asked his owners why he was plastered to my side all day long and they
said "because we told him to take care of you".
I did just enough research on beekeeping to know the parts of a hive and
when you can siphon honey from it. Thankfully when I decided the story
took place in winter, Sherlock's interactions with it were minimal and the
fact that he knows the things he's saying in his journal don't make sense
aid the discovery of the alternate journal. The fact that it proves Henry
doesn't know anything about beekeeping also ensures the drive remains
undiscovered by anyone but Sherlock.
Sherlock plays Amazing Grace as a nod to the movie of the same name where
Benedict plays Prime Minister Pitt.
Sherlock's obsession with Henry's ass and all
related imagery I blame on Berlynn Wohl, particularly
this
story which may have melted my brain.