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I think it was Sherlock Holmes’ startled gasp that woke me from my slumber. I
looked around, slightly disoriented, and wondered why he was staring at me with
such intensity. Realization suddenly hit—I was sleeping in his
bed.
“Look, Holmes, I’m terribly sorry,” I stammered. “You see, I just…”
my voice drifted off. I had no idea how to explain away the predicament I found
myself in.
It was not as if I had never been in Holmes’ bed; the nature
of our relationship had shifted some months ago to one of shared physical
intimacies. It was just that I had never actually slept in his bed. I always
left soon after our lovemaking in order to prevent our discovery and ruin.
Holmes was still staring down at me.
I swallowed
hard. “As you know,” I began, certain that I had to explain my position before
he kicked me out of his bed, and his life, permanently, “my leg was hurting me
quite fiercely this evening.”
Holmes continued to stare. I was not even
sure he was aware of what I was saying.
“I was feeling quite discontent,”
I continued hurriedly, “and sleep was impossible. I came down from my bedroom to
the sitting room, planning to read so as to take my mind off my aches. I was
longing to read my Coleridge, for some reason, and I remembered that you had
borrowed it for the clue to that last case. I could not find it on your desk, so
I came here, into your room, looking for it. I…”
I had no idea how to
explain what I did next. I found the book, surprisingly easily, on Holmes’
nightstand. I remember that I looked down at his bed, recalling our last
evening, over a week ago now, spent in pleasant intimacy. I was feeling fairly
irritated, for I found that I was missing Holmes while he was out on tonight’s
stakeout, and I was annoyed that I was unable to accompany him because of my
pain.
I looked down at Sherlock Holmes’ bed and, for no good reason I
could now think of, I lay down. My frustration began to abate. I could smell his
lingering scent upon the pillow, the trace of lime-cream soothing me like
nothing else had been able to that night.
I had no idea how to explain
this to Holmes. He continued to look down on me, with an expression of shock on
his face.
I could feel my own face flushed with embarrassment and shame.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I repeated. “I’ll just go,” I added miserably.
I
threw the covers to the side and started to rise. Holmes suddenly sprang to
action, literally leaping on top of me and pinning me.
“You have no
idea,” he growled fervently, “how long I’ve wanted to come home and find you in
my bed.” Before I could even register my surprise at his words, he smashed our
lips together.
I felt as if Holmes was devouring me. His kisses were hot
and frantic, covering my lips, my face, my neck. It was if he was clawing at my
nightshirt, and I struggled to help him as he almost ripped it from my body. He
stopped for a moment, looking down with the same concentration on his face that
he had earlier. My chest was heaving as I lay there, feeling oddly submissive as
I took in his fully-clothed form straddling my naked one.
“You are an
exquisite creature, John Watson,” he whispered passionately. I flushed again,
this time in pleasure. I knew my body contained some of the wreckage from my
time in battle and was hardly handsome. But when Holmes looked at me like that,
I felt like an Adonis. Then he attacked me with the same intense kisses.
He would not let me reciprocate and I found myself in an almost-stupor,
accepting his ardent attentions as I lay writhing and moaning at the ecstasy. He
prepared me and entered me, barely pausing to allow me to adjust, the strength
of his desire overpowering us both. I was on that knife-edge of pleasure and
pain, fullness and pressure, joy and lust. Taking no care for my own comfort, I
pushed up to meet him as he thrust into me wildly. I accepted him fully and
wanted him all.
Holmes reached his release first, and I could feel his
hot seed filling my heat. My own need was desperate and, as I felt him begin to
soften, I must admit that I gave an embarrassing whimper. He withdrew from me
totally, and I cried out, “No,” as I tried to pull him back to me. But he was
too quick as he slid down my body, his hot mouth encompassing my manhood. I
grabbed his head and pinned him to me as I plunged frantically into that bliss.
When I found my ecstasy, I almost passed out from the intensity. I
slowly came back to myself, shuddering in the joys of the afterglow. Holmes lay
down beside me, pulling me to him so my head lay upon my chest. I clung to him
and tried to get my breathing under control, occasionally kissing his smooth
skin.
Finally, when I thought I could speak again, I looked up at him. He
was looking at me with a soft smile on his face, still holding me to
him.
“Well,” said I, a bit breathlessly I’ll admit, “if I had known this
is how you would greet me, I would spend every night in your bed.” I was trying
for a jovial tone to dissipate the intensity between us.
“I would have no
objection if you did,” said Holmes, his voice rather gravelly.
I looked
into his eyes. I could tell he was serious. I swallowed nervously. “I had
thought you protected your privacy quite fiercely. I would be reluctant to
encroach.”
He gave his nervous half-smile. “My dear Watson, I would allow
you every liberty. I have, after all, in fact done so.”
I realized then
that the fact that Holmes had let me into the intimacy of his bed also meant
that he had let me into the intimacy of his heart. I made a quick decision, even
though I knew it to be reckless, dangerous even, and could bring destruction to
us both. “I would be honored to share your bed,” I whispered. I could see the
surprise in his eyes.
“You’ll stay? Tonight? You’ll sleep here?” His
expression was one of disbelief.
I gave a silent prayer that we would not
be discovered, but I realized that I could make no other choice.
“Yes.”
He drew my face up to his and gave me a serious kiss. Then he held
me close, my head on his chest. I could feel him running his cheek across my
hair.
I fell asleep, listening to the sounds of Sherlock Holmes’
heartbeat.
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