Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fiction, Historical, Slow,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Melinda Watson is sister-in-law to John Watson, the famous "Dr. Watson" of Sherlock Holmes fame. When Watson materializes on her doorstep one day badly hurt and nearly comatose, Melinda must fight to save his life... and his mind. The secrets he has discovered about the dreaded Professor Moriarity, Holmes, and even himself have put him danger... and now that danger is coming for him... and perhaps Melinda as well.
Those who paid any attention at all to the man limping down the dirt cart path would likely have branded him a derelict, given the shabby state of his clothes and his dirty, unshaven face. He didn't walk as much as he shambled, hunched over, like he had just taken a solid punch to the abdomen and was still looking for a place to fall. Yet, every few minutes he managed to stop, pulling himself out of his crouch, slowly and painfully standing upright. He would spend a few moments standing completely still, checking his surroundings, as if trying to gauge where he was and how far he had left to travel; then he would resume his stooped and stumbling gait, his hands held palms-down in front of him, seemingly on guard for the next time he might fall forward onto the ground.
An observant passerby with a moment or two to spend might have noted other things about the man. His clothes, for instance, spoke of having seen better times; the tweed of his suit coat and pants echoed the look of a professor at Oxford, perhaps on his way to his club for a spot of tea. However, the cloth was ripped jaggedly in some spots, and streaks of dirt and blackish soot covered the fabric both front and back.
To look him in the face was to see a man who once took great pride in his full, yet neatly trimmed mustache; now, his mustache bristled, uneven and ragged, while the rest of his face had not seen a razor for perhaps a month. To look more closely was to see a man who once enjoyed good food and drink, perhaps to excess. Yet now, though the red lines edge across his nose still spoke of his fondness for drink, what once had been ruddy and full cheeks were now sunken and hollow, and the skin below his eyes hung loosely and dark, as if always in shadow.
But there were no observers, or perhaps more precisely, none who cared to observe the man shambling across the ground toward the small country village. Those who had come upon him as he made his painful walk took note of him, but only so that they could take the widest path around him. In these northern reaches of England, far removed from the bustle of London or even the activity of Manchester, the unspoken motto of the natives remained "Aid your neighbor; distrust all others on sight." And so the man traveled, alone and on foot, with only his own memory to aid him in finding his destination.
A distance that would have taken an able man only minutes to traverse took this stranger nearly an hour. After slogging through the last mile, he finally stood upright to view a small cluster of homes arrayed at various distances around the center of commerce in this rural community - a shop selling dry goods, a smithy, a school, and a church. Having only read about the town, he stood for a moment comparing what he remembered to what he could see, orienting himself to the various landmarks that caught his eye. Then he began moving again, this time with a bit more urgency, as if more sure of where he was going and eager to be getting there.
Instead of keeping to the main path, which would have lead him through the center of the town, he made his way behind the shop and the footpath which would take him toward some of the better built of the community's homes. Though rural, this was still England, and status in the community was reflected in the state of house in which one lived. Once he was away from the store a bit, he again stood to get his bearings, and his eyes locked on the second house he would come to on the path.
He knew from the moment he saw it that he had finally found his destination. It had been described to him as a bit of vibrant life in the midst of an ordinary English village, and he could see that the description exactly fit. Where the house he stood beside seemed dark and uninviting, the second one on the path fairly took one by the hand to encourage visitors to come in. A brightly-painted white fence ran the length of the path in front of the house, its gate open to welcome anyone stopping by. From there, a neatly kept dirt walkway was lined with bright flowers which didn't end when they reached the front of the house, but instead branched to each side, surrounding it with color. The house itself was different as well; where most homes around it were either gray or brown, this house was an earthy red, making it look as if it had been built of brick, even though it was obviously made of wood. The effect was astonishing; without knowing he was taking the steps, the man was pulled toward the house, basking in its sense of life and vibrant welcome. He placed his hand on the gate, leaning just a bit; as it held his weight, yielding only slightly, the man's shoulders began to tremble, and he bowed his head, his lips moving as if in prayer. When he looked up, his eyes were shiny, and the tracks of tears cut through the grime layered onto his face by weeks of walking without stopping.
Yet, looking into that face now, the grimness of those weeks seemed muted, replaced by the relief of having finally reached his goal. Though still laboring, he pushed away from the gate and forced himself to walk with his back straight and his head raised, the pain of doing so overcome by his need to stand at the door of this house with at least a semblance of his dignity in evidence.
He counted each step as he moved: six steps from the gate up the walkway; two steps up to the slightly raised outside porch; and two more steps from the edge of the porch to the door. Like many a man about to meet someone for the first time, he ran his hands over his clothes, trying to rearrange them into something he thought might look a bit more presentable, though failing miserably in the attempt. Finished, he took a deep breath, then raised his hand and knocked three times on the door. His eyes had followed his fist as it rapped on the wood; only after the third knock was complete were they drawn to the simply carved wood sign hung to the right of the doorframe.
Slowly, the man reached out his right hand; with his finger he traced the letters carved into the pale, polished wood: T-H-O-M-A-S on the top line; W-A-T-S-O-N, MD on the second. He was so absorbed in tracing the letters that he was caught unaware when the door was opened.
The woman that opened the door stood there without saying a word, watching the man trace the letters on the sign. Her first instinct was to close the door and lock it, as she didn't recognize the man as one of her neighbors, and his disheveled clothing and ragged countenance did not inspire her to treat him in a solicitous manner. And yet, as the stranger seemed oblivious to her presence, she studied him, taking in the details of his appearance like the trained observer she was. She noticed the cuts and scrapes on his hands and face, the spots of blood on various parts of his clothing where it was torn. She noticed the area on the back of his head where the hair was matted with dried blood, as if he'd been struck. And, as he his finger traced the final letter cut into the block of wood that she had hung by the door after the house was finished, she noticed the tears that came from his eyes. But only when he turned his whole face toward her did she realize completely why, even at first glance, something about him had seemed so familiar.
"John? John Watson? Is it really you?"
The man took a step closer, trying his best to smile, but managing only a slight grimace. "Hello, Melinda. I'm truly surprised you recognized me. It's been such a long time since we've seen each other."
Without realizing it, the woman reached up to touch his cheek, her own eyes beginning to tear. "John! What's happened to you? You look like you've been through hell, and just managed to live to tell about it!"
The man let out a short bark of mirthless laughter, astonished at the aptness of her words. "Indeed, that may be the concise description of what has happened to me over these last few months. Truth be told, I had nowhere else that I could think of to go. I most desperately need a place to rest and regain my strength, and someone I can trust to listen to me and help me decide what to do." He paused for a moment, taking a ragged breath. "I was hoping on both accounts that this place might be the answer."
"Of course! Whatever the problem, you're most welcome to stay until we can sort it out. Thomas would never forgive me if I were to turn away his brother!"
Thomas would never forgive me... Thomas would never forgive me... The words echoed through the man's mind, repeating themselves over and over. Suddenly overcome with grief, his legs gave way underneath him, and he fell forward. Though the woman was able to step aside and avoid being caught under his weight, his right hand, clawing the air for something to grab, took hold of her arm and pulled her down to the ground beside him.
Exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, Dr. John H. Watson, MD, late of 221-B Baker Street, London, began to slip into unconsciousness. Softly, almost apologetically, he mumbled a few words to his sister-in-law before his mind faded into darkness.
"Holmes has fallen, Melinda. Moriarty has gained control." And, even more softly, "And now he's after me."