It was the faint blush that gave him away.

Sherlock Holmes turned from me, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks. If I had not been so focused upon him, I would never have noticed.

This was not a blush of a coy damsel, seeking to ensnare the object of her desire and further her social standing. Instead, the blush was closer to one of a shy maid, who knows that her affections will be rebuffed but who cannot quite quell her inappropriate feelings.

I sat there, bemused with myself that I would ever compare Sherlock Holmes to a shy maid, and then realization hit—Holmes had feelings toward me.

I must have gasped at my epiphany.

Holmes turned to me, his eyes widening in shock as deduced my realization. He was, of course, a master of observation, and could determine a man’s innermost thoughts with a slightest glance. Holmes observed the world, whereas I, with my far more limited abilities, only observed Holmes with such careful scrutiny.

His blush deepened into a mortified flush and he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor. I could hear the crackling of the fire in our cozy rooms, and his quick breath that seemed like panic. He went to rise and I knew he intended to flee to the privacy of his bedroom, burying his heartfelt longings and his embarrassment deep within him, so far that they would never see the light of day.

To this day, I cannot explain my actions. As Holmes tensed, preparing to stand, I reached out and grabbed his wrist.

There was a jolt as energy seemingly passed between us, flowing back and forth. I did not hold his wrist tightly; he could have thrown me off with little effort. Instead, his gaze focused on our connection and then slowly his head lifted and his eyes met mine.

I felt another jolt at that look.

I had my second epiphany of the night. I realized then why I had observed Holmes so closely for so many years.

He opened his mouth, to say what I do not know. Still not believing my daring, I gently placed the index finger of my free hand to his lips.

He closed his mouth slightly and did not speak, but his lips still touched my finger. I could feel the hot moistness of his breath. I traced his lips slowly, feeling their chapped dryness. His breath came faster. He never took his eyes from my face.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his tongue slipped out and then gently drew my finger into his mouth. This time it was my breath that increased.

Holmes’ movements were slow, wet, sensual. My passion was rising as he suckled my finger. Finally I could take no more. I withdrew from his mouth, tracing his moisture down his cheek. Then, carefully and with great delicacy, I brought my lips to his, giving him every opportunity to pull away. He did not.

Our first kiss was almost timid, hesitant. I pulled back slightly and allowed our foreheads to meet. We were both panting now, whether from desire or fear I know not. I gently ran my fingers through his hair.

Our second kiss was far firmer, needier. We clutched at each other as our passions began to spiral.

Holmes pulled away and stood abruptly. I felt a moment of panic that he would stride from the room, but then he turned to me and held out his hand. I grasped it in my own, feeling that wonderful jolt again.

He led me to his bedroom and laid me down on that narrow bed. Not a word was said as we undressed each other and engaged in acts unspeakable in polite society. Those framed criminals decorating his wall were our only witnesses and, although our acts might have shocked their namesakes, their silence was guaranteed. The only sounds were our cries of joy, and longing, and desire, all intermingled with buried fears and apprehensions. It was the most wonderful, and terrifying, carnal experience I ever had.

When we were spent, I drew him to me, holding tightly, unwilling to let go. I could feel his racing heartbeat and knew it matched my own.

We fell asleep, entwined with each other.

I awoke to find myself alone, daylight streaming through the curtains. I looked around to find that Holmes had provided me with my dressing gown and a change of clothes. I hurried to attend to my toilet.

As I prepared myself for the day, it was all I could do not to flee from our rooms. I knew I had to put a stop to this. Such behavior was madness, especially given our close relationships with men of the law. We would be found out, surely. No, I decided, this had to end.

Armed with my new found determination, I marched to the sitting room. I stopped in the doorway, my breath catching.

Holmes was sitting at the table, an uneaten breakfast before him, reading through the morning papers. It was a scene of utter domesticity and one that I had seen, literally, hundreds of times before. Yet this morning it was different, for last night I had lain with Sherlock Holmes, and I knew now, looking at him, that notwithstanding any other decisions on my part, that he held my heart and had for years.

The truth was actually liberating.

He raised he head and looked at me. I could see a tightness in his eyes and knew that he expected a proclamation ending our brief affair. Perhaps he even intended to make one himself.

I gave him no time to consider his options. I strode across the room, purposefully, until I stood mere inches from him. He looked up at me, his eyes wide.

I leaned down and kissed him, hard, and let him feel all my love, and passion, and admiration, and longing. He froze momentarily, and then returned the kiss, his desires just as fierce.

We broke apart and I sat across from him. He did not quite look at me; instead his gaze returned to the papers before him. He did, however, pick up a piece of toast and begin to nibble upon it.

“Any news?” I asked him. My voice seemed unnaturally loud, and I realized with a start that neither of us had spoken since the prior evening, before these life changing events had occured.

Holmes looked up, startled, and I gestured to the papers.

“Ah, no, Watson,” he remarked, quirking his lips in a half smile. “No news. Although Lestrade sent a telegram asking us to meet him at the train station this afternoon.”

“Us?” I enquired.

“Well, if you would be so kind.”

“I would be delighted, my dear Holmes.”

His eyes met mine and were filled with warmth and unexpected happiness. I assumed that I looked much the same way.

He returned his attention back to the papers, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. I began to attack the breakfast before me, smiling all the while.




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