Twisted Pair: Part One

A Whispered Word

by Liederlady

Notes

Friday, June 21, 1889

I silently stewed while Holmes sat beside me driving a carriage the seven miles to his latest client’s home, The Cedars, near Lee in Kent. Oblivious to my ire, he animatedly related the details of the lady’s missing husband, Neville St. Clair.

Despite the fact that he was in disguise and obviously on a case, finding Holmes at the Bar of Gold opium den in Upper Swandham Lane had rattled me more than I realized and not merely because the man had accosted me in a most inappropriate manner. Beyond my concern regarding his inherent susceptibility to addictive substances, I was angry that he had infiltrated such an unsavory venue without anyone—particularly me—knowing where he had gone.

Although Holmes is renowned for playing a close hand in his cases, as well as trekking where more cautious men fear to tread, I could usually extract from him a general idea of his whereabouts. My methods were not as elegant as his, but they were effective.

It was always comforting, I habitually complained, to know where I might locate his lifeless carcass. His accustomed response was to bark a laugh, arch an eyebrow and then grudgingly enlighten me.

In this instance no doubt, he thought it more prudent to keep me in the dark … because of the opium. Our battle regarding his escalating cocaine use had become increasingly, shall I say, spirited. He would hardly wish to yield additional ordnance to my side of that dispute.

Add to that the fact that he had dashed off on a case, therefore abandoning our dinner plans, and my already dark mood deepened.

For the past month, I had spent many days and nights away from Baker Street supplementing the harried staff at St. Bart’s during the latest influenza outbreak. Holmes and I kept missing each other the few times I did manage to make it home.

Two weeks ago, after reaching an adamant and mutual decision, we resolved to share a pleasant supper at my club this evening…bar nothing. Unknown to Holmes, I had arranged for one of the private dining rooms there as well as our favorite dishes, wine, cigars and brandy.

When Holmes failed to appear, I grew concerned and sped back to Baker Street. Although I hid it from Mrs. Hudson, I was deeply disappointed. After dinner, I had planned to ply my friend with enough brandy to render him …

Holmes’s stimulating voice broke in on my reverie; he ticked off the results of his research into St. Clair’s debts and assets, striving to either rule out or infer any financial motive for the man’s disappearance.

After years at Holmes’s side, I understand his habitual need to review findings aloud. The exercise helps sort out facts and often leads him to draw fresh insights.

“Therefore, there is no reason to think that money troubles have been weighing him down,” Holmes concluded.

“A veritable paragon,” I muttered.

From my periphery, I caught the sharp dip of Holmes’s head.

“Watson, there’s a hint of skepticism in your voice which does you no credit,” he said teasingly. He was in high spirits. Therefore it was doubtful he would be unduly fazed by my annoyance.

“I suspect Mrs. St. Clair came to you saying that her husband had disappeared,” I said.

“Exactly,” Holmes replied.

“Well, well, that seems to be a continuous thread in life’s fabric,” I muttered, not exclusively referring to the hurtful insensitivity of Isa Whitney, the reason I had shown up at the opium den. Frankly, I entirely recognized and empathized with the care lines etched on the face of his worried wife as she begged my assistance tonight with fetching him home.

Similar creases were growing more apparent each time I gazed in a mirror.

“Watson, what is this,” the source of those creases asked, glancing over at me.

Holmes’s curious tone reinforced the note of entreaty regarding my sarcastic remark; how like him to completely forget our plans when something as appealing as a mystery involving an opium den presented itself as a distraction.

I kept my eye on the road as his were on me.

But Holmes leaned in to capture my gaze, his own bearing a rather amused squint. But despite the surrounding darkness I noticed the intensely affectionate, albeit confused, gleam in his eyes.

There had been a time, early in our association, when Holmes would have neither noted nor cared whether I was upset with him. Now, however …

His sparkling dazzle grin flashed for an instant, slicing through the stretch of gloom which separated us. Then I felt the sudden press of his knee against mine.

He was choosing to employ a number of the available charms within his considerable repertoire, intent on cajoling me from my peevish disposition. This too, was behavior which had developed slowly over the past six years. Holmes’s pathological need to control every situation can inspire both admiration and rage, sometimes simultaneously. However, mastery of his more intimate endeavors required … careful honing.

I glanced over at him and offered a resigned smirk, then returned my attention to the road. I felt rather than heard him sigh next to me then the reins he was holding snapped encouragement to the horse’s rump.

“I shall ignore your air of resignation to the world’s frailties and continue,” he trilled airily.

“Oh, please do,” I replied.

The continued pressure of his knee was not lost on me.

He went on to tell me Mrs. Neville St. Clair’s story. As he did, in his lilting and spirited way, I would surreptitiously glance up at him, grudgingly enjoying the play of limited illumination on his striking features.

Despite my own foul humor, when Holmes was in such good spirits, I could listen to his pleasant narratives all the livelong day.

“There’s so much more yet to tell you, but here we are … The Cedars,” he finally said, drawing up the reins in front of a handsome villa.

“Thank you,” he said to the stable boy who had run up to take charge of the horse.

As Holmes shifted his carpetbag and Gladstone into his left hand, his right slipped unseen behind them to squeeze my thigh. Then he nonchalantly grabbed up his walking stick and alighted from the carriage, graciously waiting to gesture me ahead of him up the front steps to the doorway.

As we awaited an answer to our knock, Holmes moved close behind me, his long, willowy frame leaning solid pressure against my body, his warm breath fanning the hairs at the base of my neck. I felt a few firm pats of his gloved hand against the arm of my coat before it stroked purposefully downward, the leather-clad fingers burrowing past the cuff to repeatedly brush the bared skin of my wrist. 

I cleared my throat as I heard footsteps approach from inside the house. But I need not have worried. Holmes’s senses are, if anything, keener than my own. His fingers grazed a final, lingering stroke at my wrist before drawing away just as the door opened.

Once the maid saw to our outer garments and Holmes’s bags in the foyer, a lady I assumed was Mrs. St. Clair came to greet us. She was a petite, handsomely dressed woman with attractive honey-warmed hair and fine-boned, creamy-skinned features graced with a smattering of freckles. Her voice was as light and delicate as her looks.

It was not until Holmes told Mrs. St. Clair that he had invited me to spend the night that I remembered I had neither toiletries nor nightclothes. When I had left Baker Street for the Bar of Gold earlier in the evening, I thought I was simply fetching Isa Whitney home.

I had no idea my missing partner would surface to embroil me in a mystery requiring an overnight stay.

He was being understandably solicitous of our hostess’s natural concern for her husband. Even before Holmes admitted to Mrs. St. Clair his belief that the man was dead, I recognized within his stormy eyes the dread of a less-than-favorable conclusion to this case.

Even so, once Mrs. St. Clair notified him of the letter she received that day from her husband, Holmes began instantly reassessing the facts. While our hostess recounted the events which led to the police investigation into her husband’s disappearance, I watched Holmes pace, slow, cat-like, round the dinner table as though stalking some unseen prey. I recognized that he was formulating, assessing and rejecting theories based upon the arrival of Neville St. Clair’s letter.

Eventually, while Mrs. St. Clair continued her narrative, Holmes sat next to me at table. I did not acknowledge him, continuing instead to take notes. He kept toying with the envelope and letter, attempting to distract me. When he failed to do so, he adjusted himself in his chair, angling his legs toward me. As he did so, his boot slid along my right shin.

The contact was not incidental.

I shifted a bit in my chair and moved my leg away from him. He used that moment to interject the amounts of the found coins in St. Clair’s overcoat, which had been ominously discarded in the Thames.

“Your conclusion, Watson?” Holmes asked. I felt the weight of his gaze searing me, knowing he wanted me to acknowledge him. Finally, I glanced over at him for more than a fleeting moment. There was a storm brewing within those grey eyes.

When Mrs. St. Clair exhorted me to be candid, I turned away from Holmes and proposed that the murderer must have been Boone, the beggar. I heard Holmes’s sharp inhalation next to me, understanding it had less to do with my answer and more with my continued reluctance in regards to his advances.

“Even though my husband is still alive,” the lady mused.

Holmes exhaled sharply, this time it was in response to the ongoing conversation. Nonetheless, his long leg shot forward and again bumped my shin before he rose and approached our hostess, proposing that the significance of her husband’s letter should be reexamined.

That letter …

My friend is hardly predictable, but in his methods of investigation and habits of a lifetime he is consistent. Often, when I was involved with him on a case, he would ask me to read to him any correspondence or reports which had a bearing. Again, the luxury of reviewing facts related aloud augmented his singular instincts.

Therefore, when Holmes asked if he could read Neville St. Clair’s letter to me, I was a bit surprised, even more so after he began reading.

“’Dearest ...’” [it ran]

Before I could suppress my reaction to both the word and Holmes’s seductive whisper of it, my head responsively jerked up toward my partner; however, I quickly bowed back over my notebook for fear that Mrs. St. Clair would observe the flush I could feel spreading above my collar and the glaze which had clouded my eyes.

I was exceptionally relieved when Holmes altered his baritone to a more decorous, less stimulating timbre as he read the balance of the missive.

“’Do not be frightened. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait with patience. Neville.’ ”

While Holmes inferred clues from the letter and its envelope, I could not keep my mind from straying to thoughts of throttling his positively charming throat. I knew he was purposely taunting me as punishment for my earlier irritability.

Not that Sherlock Holmes would ever sink so low as to exhibit irritable behavior.

“It is a trifle, of course, Watson. But there’s nothing so important as trifles,” Holmes intoned regarding the details he had observed from the envelope.

Still, he was far from done with his teasing, the precise aim of which was to thoroughly unsettle me.

The man rarely fails when so motivated.

“Mrs. St. Clair, has your husband ever spoken of the Bar of Gold in Upper Swandham Lane?” Holmes asked our hostess.

“Never,” she replied.

“I suspect that Doctor Watson has a question to put to you,” Holmes said. I fired an unpleasant look toward him but he beat a leisurely retreat to the far end of the room.

I idly wondered what sentence I might receive for strangling a man of such considerable celebrity as Sherlock Holmes.

“Um. This is a difficult question to ask, Mrs. St. Clair, but ah, has your husband ever shown any signs of taking opium?” I asked. There was no delicate way to broach such a subject.

Mrs. St. Clair was a remarkably self-possessed woman, hesitating only a moment before responding.

“He always appeared perfectly normal. Though I confess I would not recognize the signs. What are they?” she asked. Her gaze was steady and open.

“Listlessness, ah, a lack of energy, an inability to concentrate. A general air of apathy,” I replied.

“Doctor Watson is a specialist in uncontrolled addiction,” Holmes broke in.

I abandoned playful musings and bit down the angry bile that surfaced in my throat.

“My husband was not an opium addict. That’s to say is not an opium addict,” Mrs. St. Clair said firmly. Then she turned toward Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes, I know you think my husband is dead. I fully realize that letter could have been written on Monday and only posted today. I know that the circumstances as they have been described lead to the inescapable conclusion that he has been murdered. But equally, I know that he is alive,” Mrs. St. Clair said imploringly.

At this juncture, her voice dipped to an emotion-fraught whisper, “There is such a keen bond of sympathy between us. I should know if evil came upon him.”

I saw a rare flinch mar Holmes’s brow in response. Then he handed Mrs. St. Clair her husband’s signet ring which had been enclosed with the letter.

“Please help me to find him,” the lady implored the detective. As her whisper broke, she swept past Holmes and hurried from the room.

I rose to follow after her to ensure she was all right. As I passed Holmes, his hand grasped my arm to detain me.

“Give her a moment, dear fellow,” he said quietly.

I nodded, understanding she would need to discreetly compose herself.

“Watson,” Holmes said.

I glanced up and noticed creases of distress rippling across his forehead.

“I apologize for the addiction comment,” he said, his eyes darting sideways, evading my gaze.

“Would that it was accurate,” I replied.

Holmes’s wince should have softened my annoyance. Instead, I turned toward the door to see to Mrs. St. Clair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our hostess quite recovered and saw to it that Holmes and I were seated, insisting we partake of the cold supper of ham, cheese, fruits and sweetbreads which adorned the dinner table. She remained to provide us with further background on her husband’s past and their life at The Cedars.

Holmes had become morosely silent. I knew the cause, but Mrs. St. Clair kept glancing over at him, watching him pick at his food. She would glance worriedly over at me; I would shake my head and smile encouragingly, but it was obvious his behavior concerned and confused her.

It was very typical of Holmes to sulk.

I attempted to keep up both conversation and questions, but soon enough our supper was finished and Mrs. St. Clair led Holmes and me up the stairs to a guest bedroom with two single beds, a chifferobe and a sofa and two armchairs.

“Do you gentlemen need any personal items?” she asked after informing us of the water closet across the hall from our room.

I was about to request the loan of a nightshirt when Holmes finally piped up.

“No, thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. The doctor and I have come quite well prepared,” he said, gesturing with his carpetbag and Gladstone.

“Well then, gentlemen, I shall bid you both a good night,” Mrs. St. Clair said.

After she left us, Holmes immediately took his Gladstone bag into the WC and remained there for about ten minutes. When he returned to the room, he found me sitting on the bed against the far wall.

One did not have to be the world’s only unofficial consulting detective to deduce my frame of mind.

“Something amiss, Watson,” Holmes snapped.

“Yes, Holmes. I’d like to know why you lied to Mrs. St. Clair,” I asked.

“Lied? About what, pray?” Holmes replied, clearly mystified.

“Holmes, you are a brilliant man, but there is no way you could have anticipated encountering me at the Bar of Gold, let alone have packed nightclothes for me in your bag,” I said.

Holmes shot me a flash grin, then reached into his carpetbag and yanked out a nightshirt with all the flourish of a skilled practitioner of legerdemain. His wrist jerked a few times to playfully dangle the garment just above the floor.

“Holmes, that’s one of your nightshirts,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What am I going to wear?” I asked wearily. I had had enough of his game playing. I was tired and disappointed and out of sorts. I simply wanted to go to bed and avoid the possibility of yet another argument that seemed to be brewing between us.

“Fine, I shall wrap the blanket round myself and sleep that way,” I huffed, then stood, stripped off my suit coat and headed for the door with the intent of having a wash across the hall.

Suddenly, Holmes was in front of me blocking my exit. Holding an end of the nightshirt in each hand, he flicked it upward in an arc and draped it, towel-like, round my neck.

“I shall share with you, Watson.” He was using his purring tone. “I do not often enjoy the opportunity of dressing you in my clothes.”

His eyes were glittering and for a horrible moment, I thought he might have used the cocaine while across the hall. I frantically searched his gaze; his pupils were dilated, but not abnormally so. Actually, they looked as though …

Holmes began twisting each end of the nightshirt around his hands, tugging me toward him and confirming my second theory. But I resisted.

My masterful partner was not to be put off, however, so as he wound the fabric about his hands he simply moved toward me.

“Watson,” he said, his voice now descending to the same seductive whisper he had used in the dining room.

“Dearest,” he trilled, as though reading my mind.

“It was madness for you to do that,” I chided. But my voice, too, had slipped to a lower register.

“Well,” Holmes said, “you are possessed of the unique gift of blasting all rational thought from my mind.” His eyes traveled from my face to the top of my head and back down as though striving to memorize the look of me for later recall.

“Holmes, it’s late and--,” I began.

He bent his head and brushed his lips against mine; just a glancing kiss. Very gentle, nearly chaste.

“How very much I have missed you, my boy,” he whispered against my mouth.

I was about to tell him that disappearing from our rooms when we should have been enjoying an intimate supper at my club was an odd way of showing it. But Holmes was very far ahead of me, as usual.

“I am sorry about our dinner date,” he said. Then his head dipped to the side, lips grazing along my cheek and down, molding to the shape of my jaw.

Damn. The man was utterly impossible.

“And I’ve missed you too, Sherlock,” I said, sighing.

His face came back into view and it bore his most dazzling smile.

“Do you really think I am brilliant?” he asked, the smile flashing to a smirk.

He meant it to be teasing, but I could detect the achingly innocent undercurrent. It was so distracting I was momentarily hard-pressed to remember my earlier comment.

“No, I simply wanted to bribe you for your dressing gown,” I said brusquely, indulgently playing along with him. Nonetheless, I lifted a hand for a caress of one sculpted cheek. Holmes’s eyelids drooped and I used that opportunity to kiss him.

I kissed him the way he likes to be kissed … relentless and rough and deep enough to elicit that satisfying whimper far back in his throat.

By the time I pulled away from his mouth, we were both panting heavily and I felt the insistent press of his erection against my own. He pulled me with him as he staggered back against the door for support.

Holmes’s pale hand slipped inside my waistcoat, thumb finding and firmly stroking my linen-shielded nipple, which instantly responded to his demands.

The rest of my body responded as well, leaning heavily against him, turning obliquely to facilitate his fondling. I lifted my head to place a lingering kiss at his throat knot. A wordless reply rumbled from his depths and the hand not plying my breast curved round my arse, pulling me closer. It began urging my hips to arch against the firm muscles of his thigh. When his rumble faded, words followed … low, encouraging, urgent.

“Oui, Jean, oui … bon … tres tres bon, mon plus cher homme.” Any time Holmes begins babbling to me in French, it is a certain sign he is far gone.

It had, indeed, been a long month.

His hand continued bucking my hips forward against his thigh, but after a few moments I had to back away.

“Too much,” I gulped and turned toward the chifferobe.

But Holmes’s persistence would not be put off. He followed, reaching round me to begin undoing my waistcoat buttons.

“You look tired. You should prepare for bed,” he murmured against my hair.

I could not stifle my smirk.

“My fatigue is hardly your motivation for disrobing me,” I grumbled.

“Ahh, you wound me, sir,” he said, pressing a playful nip to my earlobe. “Surely you know by now your welfare means the world to me.”

I shuddered and could not refrain from twisting my head to seek out his mouth. Such manifest declarations of his affection are too rare to be casually accepted.

When I could see again, my body was wedged between the wall and the side of the chifferobe. One of Holmes’s hands was locked in my hair; the other had forged a trail under my shirttail and waistcoat to roam the arching muscles of my back. And my throat was suffering a rewarding mauling by an unrelenting, ravenous mouth.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, dear fellow, Holmes!”

His hips jerked against me in a vehement, broken rhythm as his mouth branded the flesh of my neck.

It was the last thing I wanted, but we had to break this off. It was far too dangerous here … in a strange house with servants, children.

Holmes rarely behaved this wantonly while embroiled in a case. I relished the attention, but conceded his mind must focus on determining St. Clair’s fate. The man’s family must know, either good or ill, what had become of him.

And in such a grave situation as this, failure would be far more damaging to Holmes’s ego than my gentle, reluctant rejection of his lovemaking.

“Holmes!” I repeated, grasping his jaw and forcing him away from my throat to …

It is wholly unnatural for a man to be possessed of such beauty. I was momentarily mesmerized by the porcelain, almost translucent skin, near obscenely graceful jaw, lofty cheekbones to which awestruck hollows descend and pay homage, sleek dark hair that captures then releases surrounding light … and the eyes.

I believe Holmes’s eyes were the key asset which first leveraged then outright stole my heart. Their intensity and infinite variety cease neither to amaze nor hold me in their thrall.

I was in their power now, so much that I failed to see the frown marring Holmes’s reddened lips. It was only when the frown reached those eyes that my spell was broken.

“Watson?”

“Sherlock, we must be very careful. You must concentrate on the case, dear fellow,” I said with a rare quaver to my voice. To settle my trembling hands, I reached up to work at removing his collar and ascot, unfashionably askew from our exertions.

“Wat-son!”

It was not quite a hiss. His hips bucked an insistent counterpoint, but I dropped my hands to control them.

“I’m serious, Holmes,” I said. “We have not the shelter of our own home. We needs must be careful, my boy.”

His eyes went liquid. I did not often employ that endearment with him, leaving it his near exclusive territory.

“Wat-son,” he said again. This time his emotional pendulum swung opposite to the ire of a moment ago and I envisioned another ardent onslaught. I despaired of possessing the wherewithal of stopping him a second time; already, his hands transformed into clutching magnets on my buttocks.

“No, no, no, no no,” I said; a perfect reproduction of his familiar, lulling remonstrance.

It was enough to break through; I was awarded a lopsided grin.

“Watson, you shall pay for this,” he said, an eyebrow arching.

“I certainly hope so,” I chuckled, lifting one of his palms to my lips.

The courtly gesture prompted a clearing of his throat and a severe dip of his raised eyebrow. Holmes is often unnerved by such innocent attention. I waited for him to pull away, as is sometimes his wont when specters from his past arise to disquiet him. He never discusses them nor do I press inquiry.

His incredible eyes locked upon mine for a moment, undeniable trepidation swirling in their depths. There are times when shimmer surfaces within them, plentiful enough to wash aching tenderness through me.

But tenderness is what prompts that shimmer.

“You know, I lied before,” I whispered, tamping down the emotion blocking my normal voice.

Holmes’s eyebrow relaxed its severity. No shimmer surfaced in the stormy grey; rather a familiar light flickered curiosity at me.

“I did not wish to admit your brilliance,” I said, now in a more recovered tone.

His eyebrow threatened another descent.

“Because I feared your head would fail to fit through the door if I did.”

Rosy lips parted and both eyebrows shot ceiling-ward. Then I was granted my reward as Holmes released a barking laugh, an extended one.

When he was recovered, his eyes gazed down at me, the stormy clouds having cleared somewhat.

“Watson, I shall overlook your unfortunate jealousy of my singular abilities,” he chided, adding a disdained sniff for good measure.

Learning to mock himself has not been an easy lesson for my dear friend. But it is one of the indulgences he makes for me.

It was my turn to smirk and he smiled, taking a step back to offer me access to the center of the room.

As I stepped forward, he startled me by swooping in and kissing me hard, bruising and penetrating. Holmes’s tongue darted past my own, thrusting toward my throat. His hands roamed, first at my face then my throat then my shoulders, back, hips.

I grew entirely disoriented and until the back of my legs met the bed and my body fell back upon it, I had no idea Holmes had maneuvered me from the wall. His body pressed down upon mine; his erection grinding insistently against my own. His hands were now yanking at my shirt and waistcoat, struggling to open my trouser flies. They would work frantically at one article of clothing then abandon it and fumble at another.

My hands became hopelessly caught in their own firestorm of blind activity, fingers raking through his black hair, down the back of his neck, pulling, kneading, clutching his sharp shoulders. My leg hooked behind one of his, jerking to draw him closer, closer to me, yet never close enough.

Holmes’s wine-scented breath was gasping into my open mouth as his teeth bit at my tongue ... my lips … my chin, his tongue then raking greedily across the flesh he had branded. His hips thrust against me, his erection straining again and again toward mine. His hand gripped one of my wrists in excruciating intensity, pinning it to the mattress.

My eyes flashed open and met his unseeing pools, the sight of them providing me with a measure of control. While carnally engaged, Holmes rarely closes his eyes. Even thundering release does not grant him the tranquility which most humans enjoy. He habitually attempts to conceal such vigilance from me, but I know only when sleep finally claims him is he truly at peace. Until his nightmares surface.

I disentangled my free arm from under his, managing to caress a crimsoned cheek. It took a few firm strokes to reach through his haze. The glittering grey of his eyes changed, rippled recognition. His grasping hand loosened my aching wrist and as he realized what happened, shimmer threatened to spill from the grey.

“Sherlock, dearest,” I managed and offered a soothing, lopsided grin.

He blinked and the shimmer stubbornly clumped the long, black lashes.

“Wat--”

“Shh,” I said and pulled on his neck for a less-than-passionate kiss. His half-parted lips quivered against mine, moving in a silent, heart-twisting language.

When I felt he regained enough composure, I released him. He appeared stronger, yet stress creases marred his fine forehead. I knew better than to caress them away.

“We must be careful, Holmes,” I said, echoing my earlier admonition.

For a full minute, he made no response, simply stared at me with a wrinkled brow. Then the wrinkles eased, he nodded and began pulling away from me. But as I began to rise from the bed, his strong hand on my shoulder impeded my ascent.

“I still desire to dress you in my clothes,” he said in a husky voice. I glanced up to his dangerous, seductive smile.

Sherlock is quite a resilient individual.

After retrieving his now-wrinkled nightshirt from where it had fallen on the floor, he proceeded to efficiently strip me of waistcoat, shirt and braces as I sat on the bed. When his hands undid my flies, I began to stand, but he pushed me back, increasing the pressure of his hand at my chest until I lay back on the bed, my legs dangling over its side.

He began peeling my trousers and drawers from me only permitting me to slightly raise my hips to facilitate their removal. Holmes then undid my garters and stripped away my hose, completely revealing my body to his gaze.

He stood and looked down at me, his eyes slightly manic as they raked over my nakedness and still-rampant arousal.

“I like your fur, boy,” his voice rasped. Then he reached a slender hand down to slither through my chest hair, up one breast, over and down the other.

“Holmes--” I groaned, but could not continue my thought. He had to stop this. We had to stop it.

“Yes. Yes, I do like it,” he murmured.

“Sherlock--” I pleaded, “for sanity’s sake stop.”

“You like my touch, boy. Your prick tells me that much,” he growled.

“Stop,” I groaned, but my hips jerked in response.

His head cocked sideways and that dangerous smile again lit his features. His hand was stroking the hair on my abdomen as it would that of a beloved pet. Were his hand to dip any lower, my tenuous control would be blasted.

Suddenly, as though in answer to my thoughts, his hand drew away.

“Stand now,” he demanded, his eyes still lit with that crazed glow.

But of course, I obeyed.

He then slipped his nightshirt over my head, gently taking hold of my arm and guiding it through the sleeve. After repeating the action with my other arm, he pulled the skirt down over my hips, his eyes locking where my erection tented the linen.

“There,” he said in a deep voice, “now just to button you up.” He began doing so, his fingers languidly brushing against my chest hair again as he worked the buttons almost to my neck. Then he stepped back to take a look, his eyes appraising and still drawn to the tent below my waist.

“You are almost presentable, my dear fellow,” he said, grinning.

“Well, that’s your fault,” I said snidely, glancing down at myself and wincing at the view.

“I suggest you stand there and wait for it to go down,” he chuckled. Then he turned away and stripped off his gray tweed coat, tossing it on the other bed. For a moment, I thought he would disrobe further, but he reached into his carpet-bag, withdrew his mouse dressing gown and slipped into it.

“I don’t suppose you packed your old blue dressing gown in there? I asked hopefully.

He turned back to me, eyed my groin, smirked then shook his head. I sighed.

He quickly moved toward the door, turning toward me before he slipped out, saying, “Don’t move.”

I had not much time to ponder just what his devious mind was plotting when he returned bearing my greatcoat.

“The next best thing, considering your persistently inappropriate condition,” Holmes quipped. He held out the coat for me; I turned and slipped my arms in as he hefted it to my shoulders. His hands fussed a great deal, smoothing over my shoulders and down my sleeves before reaching round me to blindly button me from chest to below my groin.

“Now, I believe it is safe for you to go have that wash,” he said, bowing his head and grazing his lips against my ear.

Then he was gone from behind me. When I turned, he was grabbing pillows from the far bed and stacking them on the sofa, constructing a sort of Eastern divan. He sat down with his cherrywood pipe, an ounce of shag tobacco and his box of matches.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” I asked, a bit disconcerted by his actions.

“You told me I must concentrate upon the case, Doctor. I am abiding by your directive,” said he. Then he wickedly struck a match and began lighting his pipe.

Notes

Friday, June 21, 1889: One of the many inconsistencies in canon; the precise day and date on which our story commences. In the first paragraph of the canonical TWIS, Watson tells us the time of year is June, ’89—straightforward enough. However, once he encounters Isa Whitney at the Bar of Gold, Watson becomes either a bit corn-fused himself or is playing mind games with the befuddled Whitney. Watson claims it is “Friday, June 19^th” and that Whitney’s “wife has been waiting this two days for you.” Whitney, incredulous, insists it’s Wednesday. While Whitney was right, June 19^th, 1889 was a Wednesday, his wife has already corroborated that her husband has been indulging his addiction for two days. So why does Watson insist it is Friday, the 19^th? Well, the good doctor, no doubt, was a little fuzzy on his dates with all the harrying hospital work. Then again, perhaps he was a wee muddled thanks to a certain disappearing partner and the fact that he had no dinner.

most inappropriate manner: Canon has Holmes grasp at Watson’s “skirts”; however, in the Granada episode, Holmes aims slightly higher, grabbing *possessively* a singular portion of the good doctor’s anatomy before continuing to a more respectable site: his hands.

Part Two: Invaluable Companion