A Rumble of the Past

by WatsonsDog

I enjoy writing in ‘free form’ without restrictions. I like ’scenes’ and interaction~dialog between characters. This is what makes it fun for me. Admittedly I am not much on plots. This may take place sometime after Russell and Holmes marry.

He approached the subject with what I thought was a decidedly light and even flippant pose that belied the strong feelings underneath that I was picking up. His appearance screamed nonchalance but his comments were nonetheless carefully crafted and stingingly concise. But this was always the case with Holmes. The nucleus of our pre-bed conversation later that night had been the look on my face, the dropped fork and the appearance of the young man I had known in my college days at our table. In fact the young man had actually been our waiter.

Earlier that evening the young man who'd stood before our table, smiling with the words "hello - is that you Mary Russell" still clinging to his lips had stunned me into a careless clumsiness that left me in an awkward lurch later that evening with my new husband.

Caught off guard, I had made a sweeping motion with my hand which knocked a fork off the table as I half stood then thinking better of it began to sit again and at the same time pulled part of the table cloth down as I regained my seat. Our waiter scrambled to the rescue. The expression that must have been on my face along with the blush that burned hot as I said "yes, oh, it's you." He stood, somewhat composed and yet uneasy, at the same time waiter's pad in hand, smiling at me. Finally he spoke and took an order for drinks and walked away.

My dinner companion, the former teacher turned unexpected lover who had not been terribly inclined to close personal relationships prior to my appearance in his life and therefore can be forgiven for his reaction, chose to shower me with a toothy grin that bordered on smirk but left room for the words "indulge me my dear. I'd be happy to hear the whole story." His left hand up until then had been drumming a nervous rhythm with a box of matches on the table. My reaction caused him to stop the drumming, drop the matches and move his arm below the table to grasp the top of my knee. There was a brief pat to said knee as he asked for the details. "He seems anxious to pick up where he left off." As I watched the young man's retreating back, I whispered a harsh "later Holmes," through very clenched teeth.

My past was abruptly put in my lap and I had not dealt with it very well. In the not too distant past this young man had been both friend and unusual teacher to me. He had been appealing and engaging with a charismatic presence that would not be ignored, but I had never felt any emotions akin to "love" for him. He was incredibly handsome and fun to be with but most of all he had something that I wanted. Skill. In all honesty it was my quest for knowledge that drove me to the rumble seat of his car on several dark moonless nights. My desire for that knowledge outweighed any prudishness or moral arguments I had.

Astonished as I was to see the fellow I could not do anything but splutter. Our last meetings, in fact any and all of our meetings, consisted of things that were both experimental in nature and private but most of all best left in the past.

Later when we'd returned to my flat the keen gray eyes glistened with curiosity and would not be detoured in any way no matter how hard I tried. It may have been the way the waiter stood across the restaurant glancing at me every now and again, seemingly trying to catch my eye and trying to determine whom this man I was with was. Possible too Holmes was irked by the way our waiter had smiled at me each time he'd brought part of our order. Finally though it was the scribbled note on the side of the pudding dish that may have broken Holmes's composure. Shocked as I was to see the note, Holmes was more so, in fact I suspected he was experiencing that very unpleasant of things, jealousy. He crumpled up his napkin and threw it on the table and would have gotten up had I not begged him down. He looked at me, looked the waiter, looked at me again and finally reluctantly picked up his napkin and spread it once again on his lap. We saw no more of the waiter that night. Someone else picked up where he had left off.

We rode back to the London flat in silence. I had taken no opportunity to look at the note, but I had carefully stashed it in my bag while Holmes had been busy giving great big scary stares at Mr. Waiter. I naturally busied myself once home with this and that and spent quite a long time in the water closet. The note I saw had Mr. Waiter's address scribbled on it and "come see me later." Unlikely, Mr. Waiter. I put the note back in my bag and decided to face the fates that waited.

I find cautious slow strategy or sometimes delay even roundabout confrontation, can sometimes help to wear down the opposition; or in my case, Holmes. Ultimately he is one who is impossible to avoid and finally only a direct and decisive confrontation will do. He does have a history with that sort of thing. Still, I had never told Holmes of any adventures of a physical nature I'd had prior to him. In fact I'd led him to believe that I had been merely kissed at college. Nothing more. It had been my one and my best deception. I had no other secrets from him. But this, well I'd felt my ears burn each time I'd thought of it. It was not shame at anything I'd done. It was some irrational awkward fear that Holmes would think less of me should he find out. It seemed almost a prehistoric fear that my man would push me away out of the cave if I had been tainted by the touch of another. Not that I actually believed this rubbish, but the way society pushes these things down one's throat! We must be made to feel guilty about things we should never be burdened about in the first place. Finally though I had put it out of my mind, justified to myself not telling him about it. In fact, why should he know? I felt the whole situation belonged to my past and it had no reason to be removed or reopened from that past. That was, until tonight when that thunder rumbled from the past.

I thought perhaps that when we arrived back at the flat that he might let it go and allow me a reprieve for the night.

I was mistaken, and as my mind wandered over the past with that young, handsome man, I smiled, not for the joy of feelings I had experienced but for the reasons I had done what I did and how differently I felt now doing similar but altogether headier things with an older, more handsome man. For my part, though, this past of mine was part of my studies - I was being scientific and thorough, and at the time that part of my study needed to give way to actual practice. Of course, it was not the most difficult studying I ever did. But the past now paled in comparison.

The culmination of our discussion was that we engaged in relations. Many of our emotionally charged discussions ended like this. When I told him why I had done what I did, he laughed and said it was logical and that it seemed to hurt no one too badly. But I could sense there was more, more that he now had not told me about how this had made him feel.

Now confession and emotion lifted us together in a sphere of perfect love. One that was complete and just as inquisitive as our first time. One small uncomfortable secret was out in the open. I felt better for it and he had been mostly amused and perhaps a touch jealous. The jealously was not of my youthful experience but of the other man's youth, of his being the first, of his being there to teach me what Holmes had not let himself do until much later. That night he showed me how young his heart was, how full his love, how demanding his desire for me and especially how much he could still teach me.

Of course I'd had little or no detail about his own past. And as of yet he was not offering.