Disclaimer: They may be preventing me from doing any real work, but that doesn't make them mine. Clearly the dialogue that is recognisable is from Granada's 'The Master Blackmailer' and even less mine than the rest. It's all based around that version, rather than the 'Charles Augustus Milverton' story version, because the sequence of events suited me better... and because it gave me a good excuse to repeatedly watch Jeremy Brett taking a bath ;)
'Holmes?' I looked up from my journal. Holmes was perched in the window, knees drawn up to his chest in his customary manner, looking slightly on edge. Earlier in the evening, upon my return, I had suggested a way of trapping the vile Charles Augustus Milverton, and having him arrested. He had pointed out the illegality of my idea, which had irked me a little, since I knew that Holmes desired his destruction to an even greater extent than I. He had reassured me, however, with a comforting hand on the shoulder, and a confident statement that the man should be caught soon. I thought that having taken his bath and had time to think, he would now expound upon his own ideas, but I was wrong.
'I am experiencing some little difficulty; a matter upon which I consider you to be a greater expert than I.'
I frowned, I could only think that it was a medical matter, as there are few other subjects upon which I would imagine Holmes could possibly either wish or need to consult me – many of his other areas of ignorance being readily filled in from books or newspapers. 'Go on.'
'There is a...a girl, a maid at the house. Purely for the purpose of acquiring data, you understand...'
'Of course,' I replied, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice. The idea that Holmes would actively pursue any female for purely personal reasons seemed utterly alien.
'It is vital that she believes me to be in love with her, and I rather think she does. But I am having...problems, and it is bothering me.
'Yes. When I have been... shall we say, courting, the girl, she has been of a mind to tumble upon the grass, and to kiss me.' He stopped, giving no indication as yet of the reason for his exposition of this episode. His hand waved through the air, dismissing the sentence I was about to form.
'I did not know what to do, Watson. Oh,' The hand waved again, 'I do not mean that I did not know how to kiss. I have done so on occasion, when necessary, so you may cease that disbelieving grinning.' He stared out of the window, apparently captivated by something on the dark street below, then glanced at me furtively. 'I mean that those actions which accompany a close embrace of that nature do not come instinctively to me. When I was younger, perhaps I might have been better equipped to... but on this occasion, I found that I could not find the actions to suit the scene.'
He stopped, his hands clutching reflexively at the knees of his trousers. I spoke,
'But you said she believed you? So your performance must have been...appropriate in some way or other.' Again the quick glance in my direction, searching my face for an answer to something I could not fathom.
'Yes. I believe she found me... touchingly naïve. That is somewhat demeaning to a man, even a man of my character. I don't suppose you have ever been accused of any such thing, my dear fellow. But this is meant to be something entirely commonplace, is it not? When one is caught up in the moment of the kiss, one's... one's hands, one's arms, find their resting place, their movement upon the other, quite instinctively. I have observed it time and time again in the embraces of others. So why did it not come naturally to me when I was placed in a similar situation? Doctor?' He spoke the last word as if my status as a medical man well qualified me to answer his question.
The fact was that I had several answers, none of which I could comfortably share with my friend. That he was not a normal man? That his brain did not function as did those of lesser men? These were facts of which he was well aware, yet for me to suggest them as possible reasons in this case would not have endeared me to him. That he had no interest in women, unless it be that they presented an interesting problem or, in one case of which I could think, an equal adversary? That was a fact that he would accept, but not countenance as an explanation.
'Why does it matter to you, Holmes? I would have thought that such knowledge was unimportant as regards your work.' I expected a tut – he has always been so strong in his avowal that no extraneous information should be allowed to fill up useful space in that great brain of his. But I did not hear a tut. Instead, I received an answer.
'Watson, you know perfectly well that on many occasions, not least the one in question, my undoubted talent for disguise, for mimicry, has allowed me to inveigle my way into situations which have made it possible for me to obtain invaluable data for the solving of the case. My failing did not matter this time. The girl believed me; found it touching. What if the next time I am called upon to express such, such physical affection, the recipient is more worldly, more suspicious, notices my apparent lack of interest? Can such affection be learnt? How is it achieved, Watson?'
I shook my head. How does one begin to explain something like that? Holmes was right. When I kiss a woman, the placement of my hands, beyond a certain regard for what is socially and morally acceptable, is determined by some part of my brain over which I have little, if any control. If my hand clutches at my lady love's shoulder, if it rubs across the soft skin at the nape of her neck, if, as I pull away, my fingertips brush through her hair and my palms cup her smooth cheeks, well, what of it? I don't know how I do it, how I choose my actions, so I could not possibly explain it.
'Holmes, it's just something you... What did you do with your hands?'
'I did not know what to do with them. At last I may have rested them upon her shoulders, I do not remember. I know it was insufferably awkward.' His nose twitched in a dissatisfied sniff and I rose from my chair to retrieve my pipe, which I had left on the table at breakfast. Now, at the other end of the day, I sought refuge behind its glowing bowl.
My pipe lit, I went to sink back into my chair, but something about Holmes' posture stopped me. There are times when he appears so utterly defeated, and at such times I always fear for his health, he slips so easily from his moods of fiery energy and enthusiasm to those darker moods where he is liable to seek solace in activities I cannot and will not condone. I stepped up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
'Are you all right, old man?' He slipped off the windowsill and strode to the settee, perching upon it with his hands round his knees. I pulled the blind down over the window, where he had raised it to look out, shutting out the deepening darkness, and watched him take up his own pipe. The wrong one, I noticed: the one that always means I am about to be forced to put up with a truly foul mood for the rest of the evening. I decided to attempt to avert the unpleasantness. 'What can I do, Holmes? I don't know how one learns to...to touch another. You can be so aloof, yet I have seen you touch many people, upon the arm, upon the shoulder. A pat on the back, or a grasping of the hand are not alien to you, even with virtual strangers, even with women – it is only when they throw themselves at you that you lose the ability to respond. I have seen you,' I added, pointing at him accusatorially with the stem of my pipe. 'And you touch me often enough.'
He regarded me for a second, then turned away, feigning boredom. 'You are hardly a lady to be kissed, Watson. You are my sounding board, my...' He seemed not to be able to state exactly what I was, and his hand fluttered vaguely by his temple. 'My friend.' I felt unsettled, his peculiar moods often make me restless and I have found myself pacing, just like him, when it happens. I ended up behind his seat and rested a hand once more upon his shoulder.
'What can I do then? What is it you would achieve?'
'I should like...' He drew himself up, replacing the pipe upon the table. I let out the breath I had been holding. The disaster was, perhaps, temporarily averted. 'I should like, when confronted with such a situation again, to have a set of rules available to me that will allow me to set my hands upon the lady with perfect confidence, no matter how my mind revolts at the idea.'
'You have held Mrs Hudson to your bosom with confidence, I have seen that, too.'
'Ach! Mrs Hudson! That is as if I suggested that you had intimate carnal knowledge of your bed-sheets. No doubt they are warm and comforting and wrap you about with softness, but they are hardly comparable to the arms of a woman... I imagine.'
His analogy was ridiculous and I scoffed audibly at it. He looked up at me, and his gaze followed me around the room until I stood before him once more.
'Well?' he asked. My mind whirled: it does, when Holmes asks certain things of me. It is as if his mind, which thinks so clearly, may suck the same quality of clarity of thought from those around him. I was also unnerved: Holmes does not like to be taught. He loves to learn, to read, to observe, and thereby expand his knowledge, but only a fool would sit down and try to instruct him, I see him as a most difficult pupil indeed.
'Well, if such things may be explained and taught, I suppose I might instruct you upon the simple placement of the hands, but such a keen observer as yourself can surely acquire that knowledge without my help. It's not the placing of hands, my dear fellow, it's the feeling behind it, and I fear, if that does not come naturally, then even a doctor cannot...' Holmes leaned back in his seat, then, suddenly bouncing forward, stood before me.
'Well then, Doctor, what little you can do, I shall take.' He strode around the room, and suddenly spotted something. A hatstand, draped about with coats, and of a height to place the shoulders of those coats just a little below the level of his own. 'Here!' he exclaimed, beckoning me closer. 'See, this hatstand will prove an excellent stand-in for the female form!'
I could not help my amusement. 'Really, Holmes, I know your experience is not extensive, but I would hardly say...'
'Hush.' Holmes was adamant. I shook my head in exasperation, and scratched my head as I tried to think of a single move that would appear natural and loving, when applied to a coat-laden hatstand, or indeed, a person.
I stepped up to the hatstand under Holmes' watchful gaze.
'I suppose...' I reached my arms around the foremost coat, feeling utterly ridiculous. 'One might...' I laid a palm flat against the fabric, but the shape was all wrong and I could not remotely imagine myself to be with a woman. Holmes tutted at me.
'What is that, Watson? I cannot see a thing.'
'I cannot do it, Holmes. The hatstand just isn't a suitable substitute.' I whirled on him, feeling ill-used.
'Well, about me then, for goodness sake.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'About me. Watson, don't be so squeamish. You have held me in extremis on a number of occasions. The doctor in you positively yearns to get your arms about me and feel about for some irregularity or other; so don't pretend coyness now.'
He spoke the truth, I have held him in my arms, many times, following injury, illness, personal assault, and once (though I would never dare do it again, following the reception that first time), when I first came across him in one of his terrible black moods and mistakenly thought that he was, under it all, only a man, whose state might be improved by some close human contact. I would not like to comment regarding his perception of my 'yearning' to put my arms around him. Perhaps the sense of it was true, but his deduction of the motive was – strange as it seems – inaccurate. I had no choice, however.
'Come here then.' I stepped up to him and raised my arms. I felt terribly uncomfortable, particularly with Holmes standing there like some damned statue, all animation having left his face at the moment of my agreement. I was not about to kiss the man, but I pulled myself against him, one arm over his shoulder, the other struggling under his own arm, where it hung stiffly against his side – he seemed to have frozen in place. I huffed in exasperation, my breath whistling past his ear and making him flinch. 'For God's sake man, relax a little, will you? You asked me to do this. Now...just...mirror where my hands are. You feel where they rest on your back? Well, match your actions to my own.'
His voice, when he replied, had that studied tone of boredom about it which I associate with his moments of greatest interest in a subject upon which he has professed to have no interest.
'Very well, just so?' I felt his hands come up to rest stiffly upon my back, copying my own movements. I faltered, and attempted to improve the demonstration, by imagining Holmes to be a woman... but I couldn't do it. No matter how I tried to trick my brain, closing my eyes and pretending that the shoulders under my hands were dainty, not broad and strong, yet he remained solidly Holmes, and it did not make the slightest difference. By which I mean that his being Holmes did not make it any harder to produce the desired, instinctive reaction. I found myself clutching at him, my face turning in, towards his, so that my nostrils were filled with his rich, tobacco-laden scent, and my cheek rubbed against his, accepting the roughness of his skin just as easily as I would the smoothness of a lady's cheek. His distinctive 'Holmes' smell, so familiar from countless carriage-rides, and muttered exchanges, let alone our shared rooms, seemed to invade my skull in fast-moving tendrils, pushing out rational thought and sending rapid, clutching spasms to my fingertips, which had me twisting the fabric of his waistcoat in my hands, while my mouth opened against his neck, the better to breathe him in.
It was around this point that I realised that his own movements had lost their starched stiffness. The immovable statue in my arms had turned back into a living man, whose hands were, if not as frenzied as my own, at least as warm, and pulling me just as tightly against him as I pressed him to me. His hair, freshly washed and untamed by his usual oil, brushed against my ear and tickled across my cheek as he, in turn, buried his nose in the hollow below my jaw. For a moment my straying mind thought he was merely copying me blindly, but then I heard his voice muttering, and his lips moved up, close to my ear.
'John...' His use of my given name stopped me in my tracks for a moment, so rarely does he use it.
'Yes Holmes,' I breathed, barely able to get the words out, and not daring to attempt the extra syllable required for his first name.
'What is happening to me?' he asked. His arms tightened about me, then his lips were gone, and his head moved past mine, but towards me, not away, until his chin was hooked tightly over my shoulder, and he was wound about me, clinging on as if his very life depended on it. I could hear those faint groans he makes sometimes when he is alone and in some mental distress.
I returned the pressure, gripping him tightly, not only because the situation seemed to demand it, but because the blood pounding in my veins was making me light-headed, the thoughts screaming around my brain were enough to make me cry out, and the overwhelming result of all those thoughts was that I did not want to let go of this man. Not now. Not ever. I wanted to hold on to him – that was not a new thought, but the sensation that went with it was. As was the incredible desire to kiss him, to follow through this little lesson in closeness, and actually kiss the man. I cleared my throat; this line of thinking would never do, it was causing me some problems that would become immediately apparent to Holmes in a moment or two, if he remained pressed so closely against me, body to body, all the way down.
'It's...You're not used to it. That's all...' I tried to sound professional and uninvolved, but even I was not convinced. I was all too aware that I was experiencing the most intense arousal, from this man, my good friend, whom I had loved dearly for years, but never... To be honest with myself now, of whom I never allowed myself to think in the manner I truly desired.
'I am not alone,' he murmured in reply. And it was partly a statement of fact, partly a response to my feeble diagnosis. He squeezed me more tightly, then, never being one to hide from a difficult situation, he pushed back until he could look me in the eye. 'This lesson has been most instructive, my dear friend. Did you intend it so? No...' he answered himself quickly, before I could get a word out. 'No, you are as surprised as I, and besides, it was entirely at my request.' He stared into my eyes, that rapier gaze that can transfix the most uncaring criminal and cow the most cynical heads at Scotland Yard. It always sears me to the centre of my soul. 'So what now?'
He watched me as I tried to form an answer. Various ideas presented themselves, many of them medically inadvisable. The best of an inappropriate selection seemed to be that I should step gently away from him and claim to have been carried away with a fantasy wherein his body had transformed in my mind into that of a female. He had often accused me of being easily distracted by the fair sex. However, the man in front of me was Sherlock Holmes, and a subterfuge so basic on my part would not deceive him in the slightest. Besides, it occurred to me suddenly, I loved the man. Do you willingly push away a man who has almost admitted to you that such feelings might be reciprocated? Well, yes, if you have any sense, that is precisely what you do. I can only claim that Holmes prevents me from being an altogether sensible man.
I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his top lip. He did not move, but my moustache must have tickled his nose, because it twitched. Encouraged by the lack of a punch in the face, I kissed him again, full upon the mouth this time. His lips parted for a moment in an expression of shock, and I felt his breath mingling with mine in a new and thrilling manner. Then his lips pursed, and he returned the kiss, breaking away afterwards and fixing me with an endearingly boyish look that exiled all severity from his face, while his hair flopped down to his eyes to complete the image. He did not smile, but seemed to be fighting a battle between what I hoped was an unexpected calmness – the same calm overtaking me at present – and a frightening collection of thoughts regarding what had just happened. He let go of me and I regretfully started to back away. But then he reached out and took my hand.
I thought he would pull me back, or maybe just use that hand to hold me in place while he spoke, but instead, he turned so that he was next to me, my hand still held tightly in his, and he began to pace. He dragged me alongside him for a few steps, until I got the idea, then I kept pace with him of my own accord, but still his grip upon my hand did not slacken. Back and forth we went, he took the turn at the end of each run more slowly than is his usual custom, to allow me to make the longer turn around him, then we returned in the other direction. We carried on in this vein for more than half an hour, and far from being bored by it, or worried by his silence, I felt as if I had been let in upon the secret thought processes of Sherlock Holmes, and all the time I felt his touch, burning the most pleasant of all flames against my hand.
I let my own thoughts wander – as much as they could with most of my awareness so taken up with him. At the very start of the current case, Lestrade had arrived, unannounced, in our rooms, in an attempt to acquire the letter delivered to Holmes by the Colonel's batman. There was a suggestion that, despite his forthcoming marriage at the time of writing, the substance of the particular threat of blackmail under which the Colonel was living, or rather, no longer living, was related to some indiscretion with another man. Lestrade had been confused at first by the reference, but had looked directly into Holmes's face, asking for a solution, and had seemed to find one immediately. A little discomfited himself, Lestrade had accepted that such things do happen, that this would not be the first time... But now I recalled the sharpness of his gaze as he stared straight into my friend's face and noted with some care that it would not be the last. Holmes never broke his gaze. He and Lestrade had shared some understanding at that moment, I was certain of it now. Lestrade knew that Holmes would... and it did not seem to make the slightest difference to him. I think that was the first time I realised just how well our dependent policeman understood Holmes, and, despite his many protestations, liked him.
At long last Holmes slowed his pacing, his face cleared and he stopped, turning to face me. I waited, unwilling to say anything, for fear it was the wrong thing. He started to speak almost immediately however, his pacing takes some important part in the ordering of his thoughts.
'Watson,' I felt a little, unexpected sadness at the return to my surname, but then, that is more like him. 'Watson, I am concerned that something wholly unusual just occurred. Having stated my problems regarding my reaction to the girl, I now seem to have gained all those missing powers of response in your presence.' He grimaced, 'I feel like the pocket-watch that stubbornly refuses to lose time under the observation of the watch-mender.'
'No, Holmes, this was clearly a normal reaction. You reacted naturally, so I did not need to teach.'
'Ha!' he replied, suddenly looking much happier, 'Yes, your idea must have been correct. With the girl there was no real feeling, so I was unable to produce a convincing reaction. Whereas I hold you in the greatest affection, my friend, and therefore the actions suggest themselves. Well, that is all satisfactory. I shall simply observe my own actions when I am with you, and apply them the next time necessity dictates.'
I frowned, he seemed to be disregarding the most important aspect of the case. 'But Holmes, this is most damnably awkward.'
'It is? Oh. I see. You fear the knowledge of your attraction to me spreading outside these walls. Well, my dear fellow, I understand the importance of your reputation and I shall do nothing to endanger it.'
He runs so far ahead of me at times that I am told my own mind before I know it myself. 'No, I never thought you would, my friend. But as to the knowledge of my attraction being known within these walls... Surely you have no real interest in that direction? I know you too well.' I tried to make it sound like professional concern, rather a desperate desire to know the truth. 'Love of that nature... sex...is not an interest of yours, except where it touches upon a case. Do not pretend otherwise.'
'You assume a great deal. It is not an interest in the common way of things. That I do accept, but I am, despite your occasional misgivings, human, Watson.'
'I do not doubt your humanity, Holmes, I would not care for you otherwise.'
'Listen,' he snapped, suddenly acid. I nodded, ignoring the shift in his temper, this was, after all, an unusually emotive subject for us to tackle. 'I have few friends, you are aware of that, people are of professional interest, and the plight of mankind as a race...' he made another vague gesture. 'Yet I have, for years, been captivated by you, Watson, by your friendship, by your honesty, by your love. In that embrace, I felt as I have not felt before: a quickening, I would judge, of that sense of calm and support that I take quite unthinkingly from you whenever you accompany me on a case. I do not recognise the passion that burned through me when you held me just now. It felt as though I might leave my fleshly body and rise above myself.'
He paused and I felt myself gaping at him, yet there was nothing I could do. Sherlock Holmes was, it seemed, admitting to the closest thing such a man as he could approximate to love, or at least, one of the higher forms of lust, for me. And I wanted that. There was no doubt of it: I desired him. He regarded me with his usual gaze, which I noticed was, indeed, more loving in its aspect than that with which he favoured most other people of our acquaintance.
'My dear friend, would you be so good as to repeat the lesson?' He let go of my hand and stood before me, immobile as before, waiting for me, as if the question were already answered. He is rarely wrong, and when he is, it is often I who spot it. I saw no error this time, so I stepped towards him, slipping my arms around him once more.
This time my actions were immediately reciprocated. I heard the sharp intake of his breath as this lust he could not possibly understand within his normal spheres of knowledge swept over him again. I felt his left hand moving slowly up to my neck, rubbing the skin there with the calloused tips that press the strings against the neck of his violin with such fluidity. I gripped him tightly, drawing my palms across the taut fabric of his dressing gown. The smell of him seemed intensified, the tobacco smoke now parting its thick blanket to reveal a headier, more animal smell, the scent of sex, emerging to lie heavy and unusual upon the skin of one who had not, to my knowledge, created it before.
I pressed my lips to the skin of his neck, eager to taste this new aroma. He gave a grunt of uncertainty as I flicked his neck with my tongue, drawing a little touch of him back into my mouth.
I drew back and looked at him, his eyes were hooded, but no longer with boredom or disdain. A certain fire burnt within then, which terrified me, even as I leant forward and allowed our lips to touch once more.
The touch had the effect of an electric shock upon him this time, both his hands shot up to clasp in my hair, jamming my mouth against his, holding me in place. His lips moved against mine, then I felt his teeth, tugging lightly at my bottom lip. I made a small involuntary sound and he stopped. He did not pull away, but his fingers relaxed in my hair. I did not move, just remained in place, my lips still hot against his, the puffing air of his panting breaths escaping between our joined mouths. I thanked God, who may not be too pleased with me now, but still deserves my recognition, that the modest belly I have developed through these latter years of good food and good company, pushed me away from him enough that my honest, but not altogether welcome, arousal was not pressing into him and giving me away.
After a minute or two, during which his breathing slowed again and I managed to will myself to greater calmness, he stepped back, rubbing his eyes, and spoke,
'This has been a tiring day, Watson. I wish to go to bed, but I must ask you if you would indulge me by joining me there?' My heart skipped a beat, surely even Holmes had enough of a grip on private niceties to realise that you do not just leap into carnal knowledge of a person on the first day that you declare your love, no matter how well you know them. But he went on, 'No, no, no, no, no; that is not what I am suggesting at all. Extract your mind from the gutter, Doctor, and come and keep me company now that you have thoroughly confused me.'
I could not refuse. I removed myself to my own room to perform my evening toilet and don nightclothes, then I returned to him. While I was alone, I considered dealing with the certain little problem that had arisen while he kissed me, but by the time I had undressed and washed, things had settled a little and I decided against it. No matter how careful I was, Holmes would know, and I could not face his smirking. I regretted my decision, however, as I slipped under the sheets he held aside for me, and felt his warmth along my side and smelt the aroma of him surrounding me. It sent me plummeting into lust once more. In all honesty, I was astounded. I am no longer a very young man, and to react so powerfully is, thankfully, no longer commonplace. He did not attempt to hold me, but simply lay next to me, turned on his side to face me, his eyes almost shut. I turned my head to look at him, feeling a little awkward now, and he nodded his head, indicating with hooded eyes a point further down the bed.
'You should do something about that,' he said, 'It will interfere with your sleep.' He was not displaying amusement it, or even, God forbid, disgust; simply pointing out a fact. I should have known that I would not be able to hide it from him, but the knowledge that I had been found out embarrassed me and made me edgy and defensive.
'You should do something about it, it's your fault,' I snapped. So much for my earlier shock at his suggestion of bedding down with me.
His eyes narrowed, but then he looked away, as if he were giving an answer that was not quite honest.
'No. No, I don't think so.' That melodramatic arm waved above the sheets once more and I wondered what, in that case, he expected to happen between us.
'Shall I leave then?'
He jumped, 'No! Stay here, I beg you. Do what is necessary. I can hardly object.'
Still I hesitated. Quite apart from the fact that it is a private thing, Holmes allowing it did not make it lie any less uneasily in my mind, especially to do it with someone lying next to me. My soldiering removed most of those doubts a long time ago, and I am firmly of the medical opinion that the practice does more good than harm, and certainly it does no lasting damage in moderation, yet still society frowns, and I am more beholden to the views of society than is my good friend.
I looked at him once more and as he turned to me I fell in love again and I knew I would have to do as he said. I could not watch him watching me as I started, so I covered my eyes with my right hand, being accustomed to favour my left in this matter, and I reached down and began to stroke myself.
I could feel his eyes on me at every moment, but as I went on and common inhibitions fell away, it mattered less and less. At last, no longer feeling the need to hide, I brought my hand down from my face, bringing my arm back under the sheets, out of the chill night air.
Holmes reached out and took my cold hand. He clasped it in his own, squeezing my fingers in a way that seemed almost tender. His touch improved my fantasy immeasurably, and my climax was swift and powerful.
I lay on my back, recovering for a moment, my hand still clutched by Holmes. I fumbled with my nightshirt, cleaning myself of my emissions and tugging it back down. Then I relaxed against the same pillow as Holmes, squeezed as we were in the narrow bed, and I heard him make a small, satisfied sound. I could not feel whether or not he was aroused, indeed, I could not say whether what we had done was enough to bring a man like him to such an uncomfortable state or not, I had not tried to find out, for which I cursed myself. I should have liked to have known.
As I relaxed, I felt him move. He let go of my hand, rolled towards me a little, shuffling around, then his hand dropped in the centre of my chest, a possessive gesture that made me catch my breath, and he seemed to fall instantly asleep, with the whistling of his breath gusting past my ear, and the ends of his hair tickling me pleasantly.
A/N: Reviews craved and deeply appreciated :)