The
Letter |
|||
I have long grown accustomed to
all manner of odd deliveries at our Baker Street rooms, at all hours of the day
or night. Dangerous firearms, noxious poisons, and the occasional explosive
charge arriving in the small hours of the morning can give a man a careful
outlook when dealing with his correspondence, to say the least. At the risk of
sounding blasé, after that one
unforgettable afternoon spent with a live panther as our dinner guest (actually
well-behaved and chaperoned by a charming young woman, whose unusual story I
hope to make public some day), there is little that will unnerve our household.
Consequently, the arrival of a large steamer trunk stamped with the seals of
far-off and exotic ports, accompanied by a large stack of musty antique books
bound in a battered leather strop, seemed positively mundane. As Mrs. Hudson
was away on holiday, I signed for the delivery myself, only half-listening to
Peterson’s drawled explanations. I had just awoken from a well-deserved sleep;
we had returned early in the morning from assisting Lestrade with a dangerous
manhunt in the East End, and so I had little patience for something as trivial
as Holmes’ lost luggage. “It’s a funny thing, doctor,” said
the commissionaire, his hand resting upon the doorknob. “It should’ve been
delivered with the rest of Mr. Holmes’ things six months ago, but these were
left behind at the depot.” “Yes, thank you, Peterson, I’ll –”
I stopped in mid-sentence, the import of his words finally hitting me. “I’m
sorry, would you repeat that?” “These were left behind at the
depot from when Mr. Holmes returned, sir. You know, from when we all thought he
was dead.” “Yes, I remember,” said I, a trifle
sharply. “Good day.” I turned away as Peterson left, not daring to move a
muscle until I heard his quick tread descending the stairs. I made a mental
note to apologize to him when next I saw him. I had been needing to make mental
notes like quite often of late; I had been brusque to Mrs. Hudson, gruff with
the new chambermaid, and positively vicious to that poor young constable who
had sprained his ankle during the arrest last night. In fact, there was only one
person in my life whom I had not insulted over the last six months. Six months, I thought bitterly.
Six months, and still the wounds had not yet healed. I tried to tell myself
that Holmes had acted for the best, and to my friend I had presented every
outward sign of goodwill, gladly falling once again into our old routine. And
yet Holmes’ blithe and cavalier attitude still rankled; my companion gave no
indication that our separation of three years had affected him in any way other
than the inconvenience of losing his biographer and sounding-board. I, on the other hand, had been
deeply affected by the separation. For three years, I had walked around London
as if dead myself, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. Even as my
sweet Mary lay dying, I had been in mourning for Holmes. Then six months ago,
he had come back into my life, indeed had brought my life back to me. When I
awoke that April day from my faint, it was as if I had been reborn into the
only life that had ever held any meaning for me. That fateful awakening had been
weighing heavily on my mind. I had come to my senses gradually, and my
impressions of the experience were jumbled and confused: while emerging from
the dark embrace of Morpheus, I felt gentle arms caressing me to consciousness,
while the touch of what must have been the brandy bottle to my lips became a
soft kiss, the trickling liquid a flickering tongue deliciously rousing me from
oblivion. Then I had opened my eyes and found Sherlock Holmes hunched over me,
his grey eyes wide with concern. That moment had come to haunt me
for the past six months, as had my subsequent actions. Without any thought as
to my future livelihood, I had thrown in my lot with Holmes, selling my
practice and moving back in to my bachelor digs, following my companion like
some spaniel, even to the point of barking at anyone who came too near him. I
had taken his scant apologies and accepted his thin explanations, giving him no
complaint nor asking any questions, content simply to be once more by his side.
What had I become? Was I really
his Boswell, or was it something else? Even Samuel Johnson’s famed biographer
had chronicled the actions of other notables of his time. I do not remember
reading of Boswell sharing rooms with Johnson, either, nor did he follow his
friend everywhere as I followed Holmes. And certainly neither of those great
authors, those stolid pillars of their society, would have had the feelings
that I had been having … I pulled myself away from this
dangerous train of reflection, and then my eyes lit upon the steamer trunk and
the stack of books. The books, of course, I
recognized, though it seemed odd to me that they would have been part of
Holmes’ missing luggage, being the very set of props he had used in his
disguise as the old bookseller. I smiled despite myself as I read the titles,
idly wondering where Holmes had procured them. Here, sure enough, was Origins of Tree Worship, The Holy War, and British Birds, as well as the Catullus. It was this last volume
that brought me up short. “Catullus,” I murmured aloud, my
face suddenly burning as dim memories of my boyhood in Australia surfaced from
the mists of time. I had been a scholarship boy at the school in Ballarat, awkward
and shy, but I always enjoyed my literature classes, particularly the ancients.
However, the finer meaning of the poet Catullus had escaped me until one of the
older boys explained the meaning, complete with a demonstration I shall never
forget. I blushed hotly as I remembered the secret pleasures of the dormitory
nights, those strange, forbidden embraces we enjoyed in the dark. The words of
this Roman poet who celebrated the love of his own gender had fuelled an entire
summer term of furtive kisses and caresses that even now made my cheeks flush
with the memory. That had been a mistake of youth,
I thought, the passing indiscretions of two lost and lonely boys, best
forgotten in the wisdom of adulthood. Without my bidding, my fingers
thumbed through the yellowing pages until I found the passage that had sparked
such passion. Before I could read the lines, however, a slim white envelope
fell from the leaves of the book, fluttering to the floor, two sheets of plain
writing paper slipping from the open flap. As I bent down to retrieve the
pages, I saw my name upon both them and the envelope. My mouth went dry as I
realized what I held in my hands. Holmes had mentioned once, almost
in passing, how he had undertaken to write to me many times, but, in his own
words, he had been afraid that my affectionate regard would tempt me into some
indiscretion that would threaten his secret. At the time, I had nodded and
agreed; lately, the memory made my fists clench and my jaw tighten. After all
these years, Sherlock Holmes did not trust me with his secrets. And yet, here I held one secret in
my hand. This, apparently, was one of those un-sent missives, describing his
life away from me. My heart went to my throat and I found myself unable to keep
from reading the words in that so-familiar hand:
Hot tears welled up from inside
me, and I closed my eyes, my hand of its own accord touching my lips, as my
other hand clutched the letter to my pounding heart. The man I had come to revere above all others
loved me. He loved me. Unbidden, a memory surfaced again:
a gamin smile under a thatch of tousled red hair, a gleam of mischief in a pair
of bottle-green eyes … Go on, John. Touch it. See? I’ll touch yours – it’s all right, I won’t
hurt you. There, doesn’t that feel good? Yes, that’s right. Yes, John, like
that. Oh, yes … I was shocked back into reality by
Holmes’ voice at the bottom of the steps. “Now, Inspector, I need not insult
your intelligence by outlining the connection between the extra barrels of salt
and the missing jewels. When I found out that the harbourmaster was in Westmoreland
during the period in question –” “By Jove, you’re right!”
Lestrade’s voice answered, as two pairs of feet ascended the steps. Still I
could not move, my feet rooted to the floor, and I stared at the door as a
rabbit stares at the hunter raising his rifle, listening to the detective’s
voice upon the stair: “So the clerk had
to be the one who’d taken the ledger! And then he framed himself in such a way
as to draw suspicion to his superior, eh? Nasty bit of work, that,” the
professional chuckled as the door opened. “I must confess he had me almost
convinced in his innocence. Of course, he made his fatal error when he –” Holmes
swept in the door and immediately stopped short, taking in the trunk, the stack
of books, and the letter in my hand, and instantly deducing the meaning of it
all. His questioning eyes held my gaze, and at that very moment, my treacherous
memory brought a sneering voice to my ear: Did you hear about Worthington and Smythe? Caught in
flagrante delicto behind the stables!
Absolutely disgusting, that. Father’s expelled them both, of course. Those
types might be tolerated up north, but we can’t have that sort of thing
happening here, can we, Watson? “Watson?” Holmes whispered, his
hand still on the doorknob. Behind him, Inspector Lestrade frowned over his
shoulder. “I – I have to leave,” I
stammered, looking down at the floor. I let the letter drop from my fingers,
fluttering unheeded to my feet. Silently, Sherlock Holmes stepped
aside and I barrelled through the door, not looking at either man, only pausing
to take my coat and hat from the hook before plunging down the steps and out
into the street. I walked without knowing where I
was going for some time, and my steps led me to the neighbourhood of the hotel
I had lived in before first moving to Baker Street. And just there, across the
street, was the Criterion Bar, where Stamford and I had met that fateful
morning. I sighed as I remembered our conversation. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone
to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too
much for his purse. By Jove! if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense,
I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone. I stared blankly at the familiar
façade. At the moment, I had no idea what I was feeling; the shock of my
discovery had blunted my reactions. I could not fathom it; I had
followed Holmes all these years with absolute devotion and reverence, never
knowing if my affection was returned, or to what degree, never even considering
that he had any love to give. With a leaden finality I realized
that there was no question as to what must happen next. I could not, even now,
contemplate a life without Holmes. If he wanted me, then he would have me. After
all, I was the very man for him; I always had been, and always would be,
totally, inexplicably, his. I just wished I knew how I felt
about it. I gazed across the street at the
Criterion, feeling no disgust, no exaltation, no fear, no joy, just absolute,
mind-numbing shock. I slowly realized that the shock came not so much from
knowing that Holmes loved me, as that he had failed to deduce what my reactions
would be to his love. He thought me an innocent, a normal red-blooded English
gentleman with no hidden desires. Oh, I was no stranger to the love
of my own gender. I knew the pleasures well. But I also knew the dangers, and I
knew now why he had run away. After all, I had just run away myself … and I was
not ready to go back, not yet. I needed a drink first. Then we
would deal with this together, Holmes and I. Together … the beginnings of
emotion began wearing through, and I was relieved to find that I was content,
at least, with my decision. There was no other choice to be had, really, but
still I would need some liquid fortification. Breaking the Offences Against the
Person Act was not something to be taken lightly. I entered the bar, sliding onto a
well-worn stool and ordering my usual ale, before patting my pockets and
realizing that I had left my billfold back at Baker Street. “That’s all right, Watson,” said a
voice at my elbow. “You never paid your way before; why start now? Barkeep,
tonight this man drinks on me.” I turned and gaped in astonishment.
My anxiety had conjured the memory of an old enemy’s voice, driving me away
from my home; now cruel Fate had brought forth the man himself as my rescuer.
The youth had been achingly beautiful; maturity had turned the headmaster’s son
into a marble sculpture, just as handsome and just as devoid of feeling. I
heaved a weary sigh. “Penrose Fischer! What a pleasant
surprise!” “Little Johnnie Watson, the charity
boy from the third form! But now you’re Dr. John H. Watson, MD, the well-known
author, of course! Who would have thought, eh? Though you always could spin a
tale,” he said, guiding me firmly by the elbow to a table. “Really, Watson, you
can’t tell me that that Holmes fellow is really as clever as you make him out
to be.” “Sherlock Holmes,” said I with
some coolness, “is indeed the most intelligent man I have ever had the honour
to know.” Fischer shot me a penetrating
look. “Indeed. Well, I won’t argue the point. Say, I don’t suppose you heard
what happened to Albertson, did you? I admitted I had not. Silently I
reflected upon why I had found Fischer so appallingly hateful at school; he knew
– and told – every unpleasant rumour about everyone in his acquaintance. I
wisely kept silent, not daring to think what he would tell the rest of London if
he knew my predicament, as he catalogued the latest half-truths and slander of
a dozen souls, most of whom I had not seen or heard from in well over two
decades. I nodded and made noncommittal noises at the appropriate junctures in
his hateful monologue: “… and so Roswell’s daughter is
marrying a man whose family is simply inappropriate. Jews, you know …” I bit the inside of my lip. The
man had not changed; he was still the most intolerable bigot. Holmes and I had
travelled to many dark places in London, and there I learned that the rudest
ghetto held a nobility that this so-called “proper” gentleman could never
achieve. My adventures with Holmes had taught me many things, and I knew myself
to be a better man for the experience. Only half listening to Fischer’s
monologue by now, I began to feel a strange sense of warmth steal over me. I
recognized the feeling; it was the same mixture of joy and fear I had felt when
Mary had agreed to be my wife. “… I must say I was relieved when
I heard you’d gotten married, my boy, even though you had to settle for a
governess. Still, we take what we can, eh? You had to get out of there, after
all. Two bachelors living together for so long – people were beginning to talk, you know.” I coughed on my drink. “There, there, Watson,” Fischer
laughed, clapping me painfully on the back. “So how is the little woman?” “She died last November, in
childbed,” I told him with an ice-cold stare. Even though I had left the house
in haste, I still wore the black armband that declared my mourning. Some people simply do not observe, I
thought angrily. Fischer did not even have the
decency to look embarrassed, but merely nodded in a transparent affectation of
sympathy. “Of course, dear fellow, I’m so sorry. I remember reading about it, now.
Well, at least you’re better off than old Worthington,” he finished with a
sickening laugh. I started guiltily. “Worthington?”
I echoed. I tried to keep my demeanour as casual as possible. “You mean you haven’t heard what
happened to that nancy-boy Worthington?” “I never saw him after he was
expelled,” said I. Strictly speaking, this was not true, but I was not going to
share the details of my last conversation with my disgraced hero of that
turbulent summer. “Somehow – I don’t know how – he
got into London University and got all the way to his final year before they
caught him this time. This time he did the right thing, though I hear the fellow
he was with went away to India or some godforsaken place. Good riddance, eh?” “‘Did the right thing?’” I
repeated. A sickening pit in my stomach had begun to form. Fischer, gratefully,
did not notice, but took another pull of his ale and smiled as he continued to
destroy Worthington’s reputation with all the relish of a man enjoying a fine
cigar. “Well, he rid the world of a
pervert, anyway. Hung himself. Should’ve taken his ‘wife’ with him, but I
suppose the darkies won’t mind another sexual deviant in their midst. India’s
just the place for that sort of thing. From what I hear, they’re bang alongside
any perversion out there. Comes of not being decent Christians, I suppose.” I bit my tongue, bleakly wondering
what Our Lord would think of such blatant hatred and intolerance. My sexual
deviance might be a sin, but I could not think that such venomous disgust was any
less a sin than the love I had found with Worthington in that darkened
dormitory room so long ago. And now no less a man than
Sherlock Holmes wanted to share a similar love with me. I shivered
involuntarily as I half-listened to Fischer’s tirade against perverts,
foreigners, the Prime Minister, and various other annoyances of modern society
as he saw it, while I contemplated being in love with Holmes. I knew, all too well, how such
love could harm me. Worthington had not only taught me the pleasures of love,
but also the pain of heartbreak and infidelity. I don’t know why you’re so upset, John. It’s not like I ever said you
were the only one. Come on, you know you enjoy it, so why not enjoy it with
everyone you can? Somehow, I did not think I was
likely to come home one day and find Holmes in a passionate embrace with
another man. He barely tolerated the company of others; I was his only constant
companion. Fidelity would not be one of our issues. But what of discovery? We
certainly risked more than simple expulsion from a backwater private school in
Australia, and I feared that India would not be far enough to escape the
inevitable scandal should we be found out. Suddenly, I realized that I needed
to discuss this with Holmes. I had flown out of Baker Street without informing
him of my own feelings; if he truly did not know that my heart was already his,
what might he be thinking of my retreat, even now? He did not know that I returned
his love. I myself had not realized the depth of my affection for the man. And
yet, clearly the measure of my devotion could be told in that not once through
this entire affair had I even considered the possibility of leaving him.
Instead, there was a solid inevitability about the whole thing; although I had
not told him so, I already considered myself his. It was only a matter of
explaining that it had been fear and shock that had made me run … “I say, Watson, what’s the matter?
You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, what?” I had risen without realizing it. “I have to get back to Baker
Street,” I muttered. “Baker Street?” Fischer scowled.
“You mean you’re still playing detective with that odd boob of a crook-hunter?”
Holmes and I had run into Fischer once, years before my marriage. Holmes had
not been impressed, and had treated the man to all the withering sarcasm he
could muster. Fischer, on his part, had tried to engage the great detective in
a battle of wits, and, of course, found his armoury sadly failing. I could not help but smile at the
memory, even now. “Holmes and I just assisted Scotland Yard in locking up a
dangerous murderer last night, yes,” said I. “But you’re not sharing rooms with
him again, are you?” Fischer jeered. “As a matter of fact, I am. Our
cases might come at any hour of day or night, so it is decidedly more
convenient –” “Any excuse to be with your
darling love,” Fischer sneered. I had had enough. My readers will
know that I am a long-suffering individual, but there is a line, and once it is
crossed, my temper can become quite violent. I hauled off and belted the man
across the jaw. Fischer recovered almost instantly, barrelling up into my
stomach, fists flying. Soon we were brawling across the tables, and then
something (a chair, by the feel of it) broke over my head and I knew no more. *** I awoke in a dank cell in the Bow
Street station, lying uncomfortably on a cold stone bench. Inspector Lestrade straddled
a chair beside me, smoking a cigarette, an amused smile curling his lips. “You care to tell me what
happened?” said he. I sat up, rubbing my head. “It
depends upon the charges.” Lestrade chuckled quietly.
“There’s no charges laid against you. That Fischer fellow is well-known to us.
He’s always starting bar fights. So what did he say to you?” “Nothing that should have warranted
my reaction,” I admitted, taking the cigarette Lestrade now offered. “So it had something to do with
that letter,” Lestrade persisted. I hung my head, blushing
furiously. The detective laid a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “Have I ever told you about my
brother George?” he said quietly. I looked at Lestrade dumbly, a
worm of fear eating into my heart. This non-sequitur might lead anywhere; a
police cell was not the place I wished to discuss my love for Sherlock Holmes. The little professional divined my
nervousness, and patted my shoulder kindly. “George was special – a little
different, but a kind, gentle, soul. He sang in the church choir every Sunday,
and was always helpful and cheerful, no matter what. Then he met Alan.” He
paused significantly, tapping the ash from his cigarette before continuing. “Alan
was another gentle soul, and their friendship was a beautiful thing. They went
everywhere together, boating and fishing, helping the old folks of the parish –
they even built a tree-house for the children of the neighbourhood. They had a
very … close … relationship.” I said nothing, staring down at
the flagstones of the cell. “I knew that there was more than
friendship between them,” Lestrade continued, “but they were happy together,
and so I let them be. I’m not a wise man, but it seems to me that if God is
love, than love cannot be wrong. Jesus bade us do no harm and help where you
can, and that’s exactly the way Alan and George lived, every day. And then,
when …” he took a deep breath, stubbing out his cigarette on the cold stone
wall. “After they were found out, the same folks they’d helped for years branded
them ‘perverts’ and ‘deviants,’ with not a single voice raised in their
defence. The villagers who had benefited from George and Alan’s kindness and
generosity ganged together and burned down the tree-house, calling it the
‘fairy castle.’ I was shipped away to boarding-school, of course, without the
chance even to say goodbye.” His voice broke slightly. “I don’t know what
became of Alan, but George … George went home, took father’s gun, and then …” I watched numbly as Lestrade wiped
away a single tear. “It shouldn’t have happened,” said
he eventually. “Love shouldn’t be a crime.” I nodded in silent agreement. Lestrade patted his pockets
theatrically. “I seem to have left my badge back at my desk,” he told me. “Therefore,
I must caution you that anything you say will be promptly forgotten.” I smiled despite myself. “What did
Holmes tell you?” I asked. “Nothing. As soon as you left, he
threw me out without a word of explanation.” “But then how did you –” “Look,” said Lestrade, “I don’t
know what this current spat is about, but you two have been together too long
to let whatever it is tear you apart. Every couple has these rough patches.” I looked at him sharply. “What in
the devil do you mean by that?” Lestrade arched an eyebrow. “I’d
like you to consider,” said he sternly, “that I have known you both for well
over a decade. I know that you and Holmes are lovers.” This was really too much. I threw
back my head and laughed bitterly. “If only we were! That letter …” I shook my
head, looking at Lestrade intently, reasoning that I might as well tell all. “I
swear to you,” I continued solemnly, “that I did not know of his true feelings
for me until this morning, when I chanced upon the letter you saw me holding.” Lestrade frowned slightly. “But
I’ve watched you two together. Anyone can see that you’re very much in love.” I shrugged. “I didn’t see it, and
neither did Holmes. According to his letter, he believed that I would not
return his love. That letter,” I continued with a deep sigh, “was his
declaration of love for me, written just after we lost him in the Reichenbach falls. He
ran away in order to escape his feelings for me,” I finished quietly. “But he came back,” Lestrade
pointed out. I swallowed hard. “I know.” “You mean to tell me that you had
no clue how he felt?” “Not a one.” “I could see it every time he
looked at you.” He paused thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, he only looked at
you that way when you were looking somewhere else. Strange that he didn’t
notice your absolute devotion – I don’t mean that in a bad way, you know. We’re
all a little in awe of him, it’s hard not to be. But you …” he paused
tactfully. “I love him, yes.” The act of
admitting it lifted a weight off my shoulders, and I laughed slightly. We fell
into silence for a while, staring at the cell floor, each of us lost in our
private thoughts. Lestrade spoke first. “Can I ask
you a personal question, Doctor?” “Of course.” “If you love him, and he loves
you, why did you run away?” I took a deep breath. “I was
frightened,” I answered slowly, “for a variety of reasons.” Most of which I really don’t want to think
about right now, I added to myself somewhat peevishly. “First and
foremost,” I continued, “I know what people think when a man loves another man.
But I do love him. And if he loves me …” Lestrade nodded sympathetically.
“You would do anything for him.” “Even break the law,” I agreed
ruefully. “This law deserves breaking,” the
detective said darkly. “Not that the letter of the law has stopped you two
before,” he added. “Oh, don’t looked so shocked, Doctor. I know of at least two
times when our illustrious friend has let a criminal go, but I’m not breathing
a word of it to a soul but you. It might be wrong for a copper to say, but I
believe in justice first and the law second, if you take my meaning.” “There should be more coppers like
you,” I said with feeling. We stared together at the floor in silence. I
finished my cigarette and stubbed it out on the sole of my shoe. “So if there
aren’t any charges against me …” I trailed off cautiously. Lestrade laughed softly. “Doctor John
Watson is not even here. You’re a simple John Doe, and you can go as soon as
you’re awake. I’m sure,” he finished, “that you have some things to discuss at
home.” Suddenly, a vision of Holmes’
worried eyes as he saw me with his letter sprang to my mind, and I leapt up
from the bench. “How was he when you left?” I cried. Lestrade jumped to his feet with a
mild curse. “You’re right,” said he. “I’ll drive you to Baker Street myself.” Very few people know that
Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard started his professional life as a
cabdriver; if ever I am moved to write about criminal cases other than those
handled by Holmes, I shall definitely record the dramatic story of his first
involvement with – and subsequent recruitment into – the London Metropolitan
Police. He still prefers to drive himself in the police growlers, and that day
he navigated the four-wheeler through the thickest of rush-hour traffic without
a single pause, bringing me to the door of 221B with unbelievable speed. I
jumped out and turned to shake the detective’s hand. “You’re a good man, Gabriel Lestrade,”
said I solemnly. “A word of brotherly advice, if
you’ll take it,” he answered. “I don’t need to tell you how masterful he can
be. Don’t let him be your master in this. For both your sakes.” I nodded wisely. “Thank you.” I
turned and fairly ran up the stairs, only pausing at the door, my heart
suddenly at my throat. I was about to declare my love to
Sherlock Holmes. My hand stole to the armband at my
shoulder. I had been widowed for eleven months; I had yet another month of
formal bereavement for Mary. I’m about to engage in a sexual
act with another man, I thought ruefully, and I’m worried about whether or not
the mourning period is over? With a sigh, I pulled my wedding ring out from my
watch-pocket and held it tightly in my palm. You belonged to him long before you ever belonged to me, John, Mary had
said once, a long time ago. He needs you.
Go to him. Granted, that had been for a case of fraud in Brighton, and yet
… And yet, I wondered just how much
Mary understood. Not once had she complained of my absences, no matter how
frequent and at what short notice. And when I did return … I blushed as I remembered how I
would return to Mary after a case with Holmes, so full of the excitement of the
chase and the danger that my ardour knew no bounds. The night I returned to her
after we had apprehended Taylor the poisoner, I fairly broke the bedsprings and
nearly called out Holmes’ name. I gasped with the memory. I had, indeed, almost called out
for Holmes at the supreme moment of intimacy with my wife. I had put the thing out of my
mind, attributing it to lack of sleep and food combined with an overabundance
of firearms and explosives. That night, I had been sorely tempted to kill the
blackguard, but Holmes had commanded me not shoot, and I had reluctantly obeyed,
allowing Bradstreet to cuff him and lead him away. Later, I had come to my
wife’s bed filled with visions of a filthy face cowering at the wrong end of my
pistol, a face which had recently mocked us as he threw oil of vitriol at my
friend, barely missing that chiselled jaw and those brilliant eyes. I told Mary
the story of our adrenalin-churning race across the rooftops even as I began
caressing her, entered her while remembering how I had knocked the man down,
and spent myself as I imagined pulling the trigger, sending Taylor to his grave
rather than leaving him in police custody. In seeing myself kill a man for
Holmes, I had found his name upon my lips as I died the little death. Mary must have known. We had both
known; I had just refused to admit it. You belonged to him long before you ever belonged to me. I detached the ring from my
watch-chain and kissed it, and then removed the black band from my arm,
wrapping the ring in it before putting them both in my jacket pocket. I took a
deep breath and laid my hand on the doorknob, pausing as another insecurity
rose its ugly head. He had run away because he had
been afraid of his love for me. Could it not follow, then, that his return
indicated that his love had cooled somewhat, if not completely? That letter had
been written over three years ago. What guarantee did I have that it reflected
Holmes’ current feelings? Then I remembered the look in his
eyes when he saw the letter. Underneath the fear, underneath the guilt, there
had been – There had been hope. I forced myself to cross the
threshold, locking the door behind me. The room was completely dark; the
shades were drawn and the lamps unlit. The fire had been laid but not yet lit,
it being rather warm for late October, and so only the thin slivers of sunlight
from behind the shades illuminated the room. Holmes sat in the cane-back chair,
which he had drawn up to his desk. I did not announce myself, nor did he
acknowledge my presence, though he could not have but heard my step upon the
stair. At first, I thought to approach him quietly and (my lips quivered at the
idea) give him a tender, courting kiss before telling him my heart had belonged
to him for longer than I cared to remember. Then I saw the hated morocco case
upon his desk, lying open in a stripe of sunlight, the syringe out and ready,
its dose carefully measured and dripping slightly from the gleaming needle.
Holmes was slowly tying the tourniquet around his arm. I sighed with relief; I
was not too late. Do not let him be your master in this, for both your sakes. Suddenly, I knew what I must do. I swept forward and snatched the
syringe from the desk, dashing it to the floor and crushing it under my heel. I
grabbed the morocco case and threw it into the grate. Then, before he could
react, I grabbed Holmes by the shoulders and kissed him roughly, pushing him
back down into the chair even as he tried to spring to his feet, thrusting my
tongue into his mouth, brooking no refusal. As soon as he melted into my
embrace, I pulled away, pressing a single finger against his lips. “Rule number one,” I growled,
tapping his mouth with my finger at every word. “No … more … cocaine. Swear it,
Holmes.” “Watson, I –” I stopped his words with another
fierce kiss, this one almost cruel in its intensity. He moaned into my mouth as
I forced him to open to me, crushing his sinewy body to mine with such ferocity
that I felt my ribs creak. I pulled back again, once again putting my finger to
his mouth. “You know that I am not often crude,” said I in my sternest voice,
“but I shall tell you right now that I should rather submit to you using your
prick to inject your seed up my arse thrice daily than ever again suffer you to use a needle to inject that poison into
your veins.” “My dear Wa –” “No more cocaine, Holmes. Swear
it.” He took a deep breath. “No more
cocaine. I swear it.” His grey eyes glittered in the meagre light, and my heart
flushed with pride as I realized that for once, he was under my spell, rather
than the other way round. I kissed him again, this time more
gently, but still my embrace was aflame with a passion that would have
frightened me had I been upon the receiving end. Certainly Holmes trembled in
my arms as I pressed him to me, my mouth urgently invading his, my hands taking
possession of his shoulders and chest. Once more, I pulled back from him,
placing two fingers upon his lips. “Rule number two: no more deception.” Holmes raised an eyebrow, the
spell momentarily broken. “Now, honestly, Watson, I –” “If we are to be lovers,” I interrupted, trusting upon
the impact of the word to silence him, “then it is precisely honesty that I
require from you. I cannot share my bed – or my body – with a man I cannot
trust. That means no more pretending to have exotic diseases in order to get me
worked up enough to entrap your suspects, no more pretending to be in London
investigating a blackmailing case when you’re really camping out on the moor
less than a furlong away, and no more
pretending to be dead for three years because you can’t see how much I love
you.” Holmes’ jaw dropped. “You love –” I drew his mouth to mine, and this
time my kiss was as tender and sweet as the first one had been violent. I
caressed his lips with mine, this time inviting his tongue into my mouth, opening
for him, allowing him to lead this embrace. With a sigh I relaxed into his
kiss, savouring the taste of him and the feel of his strong, muscular arms
encircling me. Eventually we pulled apart, and Holmes leaned his forehead
against mine. “All right,” said he with a sigh,
“no more deception. But I’m going to have to give you some serious coaching in
deceiving others.” I laughed, suddenly unable to
believe the conversation I was having. “Perhaps it will stand me in good stead
at the card table,” I said. “I can start winning back some of my money from
Lestrade.” Holmes gave a wry chuckle. “Dear
me, I wonder what he thought this morning! I wasn’t exactly my usual charming
self when I showed him out.” “So he said.” For the second time, Holmes’ expression
registered shock. “You spoke to him after you left here?” “I thought you would have deduced
that I had,” I said with a smile. “My dear fellow, beyond the fact
that you went to the Criterion Bar, allowed someone whom you disliked to buy
you an ale, became involved in a fistfight with a left-handed man of about your
own height before being knocked unconscious with a table-leg, then taken to the
Bow Street cells where you came to, smoked a cigarette, and were subsequently
driven home at great speed in a four-wheeler, I can tell nothing. And although
the Turkish special you enjoyed while in custody is Lestrade’s brand, it seems
to be rather popular among many policemen these days, particularly their
drivers. So what did you tell the good inspector?” “The truth,” said I. Every muscle in Holmes’ body
tensed. “Watson, are you mad?” “Actually, he was under the
impression that we’ve been romantically involved for several years,” I told
him, kissing him gently. “And he isn’t disgusted or
outraged?” “Apparently not,” I said. “He …” I
paused. “He was … sympathetic. I’d rather not say more.” Holmes gave me a pointed look.
“This ‘no more deception’ agreement, does it run both ways?” he asked sharply. “Holmes, that’s unworthy of you.
It’s not my secret to tell.” “Is he –?” “No, he isn’t,” I laughed. “Why do
you want to know, in any case? It seems to me you’re already spoken for.” Holmes grinned impishly. “Possessive,
aren’t we?” I ruffled his hair. “Your letter
mentioned something about giving yourself to me totally, completely, within and
without, as I recall.” I had never seen Holmes blush
before, and it was positively rewarding to see my friend’s ears grow a
brilliant shade of violet, while his cheeks flushed rapidly, his eyes downcast
charmingly. “I wrote that letter thinking you would never see it,” he said
quietly. “I only regret that I didn’t get
to read all of it,” I said fervently, lifting his chin and bringing his mouth
to mine. “But as for right now –” This kiss strayed beyond all boundaries of
propriety, and together we half-rose from the chair before tumbling onto the
bearskin hearth-rug, hastily removing our remaining garments. Soon we lay naked
together, side by side, our limbs entwined, our mouths and hands roaming
freely, exploring this new and delectable territory with growing excitement,
whispering soft reassurances and fervent endearments. Soon his hands found my manhood,
and I gripped his member in return. His long, thin, fingers, so adept at
manipulating his violin and his scientific apparatus, caressed my hardness with
a skill that sent waves of electric pleasure up my spine. I, for my part, only
had the feeble ability I had developed in years of lonely nights, but I pulled
at his cock as if my very life depended upon it. Our mouths pressed together
frantically now, our tongues meeting in a frantic dance as we stroked each
other to completion, spending ourselves almost in unison, the spurting seed
joining upon our flesh as we rubbed together in the climactic moment. Holmes
groaned into my mouth, his entire body trembling as he clasped me to him, and
we lay thus on the hearthrug, our bodies pressed against each other, the fluid
of our combined love cooling between us. Holmes laughed softly and ruffled
my hair. “Good old Watson,” said he, with a kiss to the tip of my nose. I caressed his chest, running my
hands over his smooth skin. “I think that at this point, you might find
yourself able to address me in a slightly more intimate fashion,” I told him,
nuzzling into his arms. He rolled upon his back, pulling
me slightly on top of him, caressing my shoulders as I made myself comfortable
upon his breast. “Very well, my darling John,” he whispered, and I shivered and
burrowed into him more as he hugged me close, kissing me upon the forehead.
“I’ve longed to call you that for years,” he said quietly. “And I have longed to hear such
words of affection from you,” I responded, “but I thought that you had no use
for something as pedestrian as love.” Sherlock Holmes gave a sharp,
barking laugh. “Yes, I did act the part well, didn’t I? No one had any idea
that I was capable of love, least of all you,” he finished in a sad voice. “‘He never spoke of the softer
emotions, save with a jibe and a snigger,’” I quoted myself ruefully. “Holmes,
I’m sorry, I didn’t –” “I’m the one who should apologize
for being so convincing,” said he, “and I thought you wanted us to address each
other by our Christian names.” I propped myself up on an elbow,
looking down at my friend quizzically. Holmes reached up and touched my cheek,
chuckling slightly. “‘Sherlock’ just isn’t going to
work, is it?” said he. “You don’t have a middle name, do
you?” I asked doubtfully. “Actually, Sherlock is my middle name. My proper Christian
name is William.” “William Sherlock Holmes.” I
smiled despite myself. “And why –” “Atmosphere, my boy, atmosphere. Whom
would you trust in a life-threatening situation: stolid and conservative
William, or dangerous and dashing Sherlock? As you yourself have so often
observed, a name can speak volumes.” He pulled me gently back to his chest, and
I snuggled into his arms with a satisfied sigh. “I’ve known you for almost a
quarter of my life,” I said, “and only now I find out your real name is. Are
there any other dark secrets you care to confess?” “Well,” said he with a laugh, “I
think you might be able to deduce why Victor Trevor left for India.” “India,” I sighed. Something in my
look must have caught his attention, for he touched my shoulder with a
questioning frown, concern clouding his features. “John,” he said, “is there
something you wish to tell me?” I took a deep breath. “Earlier,
you deduced that I had been bought an ale by someone I disliked.” “Yes, it was quite evident from
the –” I stopped him with a kiss, then
placed a finger on his lips. “Not now, William.” He blushed once more, hugging me
to his breast. “So this man you disliked …” he sighed, ruffling my hair. “He was an old school-fellow from Ballarat.” “And he was …” “A vicious gossip who gave me news
of an old … friend.” “A former lover.” “My first – and the only male.” “Besides me,” Holmes whispered,
lifting my lips to his. This time, his tongue overpowered mine, and I melted
into his kiss, groaning in pleasure. “Besides you,” I echoed some time
later. “Although I’m not sure I really would consider him a lover. We were just
boys, and I wasn’t the only one whose company he enjoyed.” I tried to keep the
bitterness from my voice, but a thread of dull anger, accompanied by a sting of
guilt, wormed its way into my heart. Holmes touched my cheek, running a
single finger along my jaw. “He hurt you?” “Badly enough that I never wanted
to love anyone ever again,” I answered, bringing his hand to my lips. “It
wasn’t until I met Mary –” I stopped and sighed. Suddenly, another ghost of the
past entered this intimate setting. Holmes kissed my forehead. “She
was a good and intelligent woman, and a credit to her sex. She brought you a
well-deserved happiness that ended far too soon, and I do not begrudge her a
moment of the love she shared with you.” I found I could not speak for my
grief, and my companion stroked my hair softly while I allowed myself time to
regain my composure. I nestled into his chest once more, listening to his
heartbeat a while. “Do you want to tell me about your
school friend?” he asked softly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want,”
he added quickly. “No, it’s all right,” I reassured
him, raising myself onto my elbow. Holmes put one arm behind his head, the
other resting upon my shoulder, gently caressing me as I began. “His name was
Worthington. David Worthington. He was in the fifth form when I was in third,
the year before my family moved back to England. He … he helped me translate
some Catallus one night, and … well, you know what it’s like at school,” I said
weakly. “Actually, I don’t. I had tutors
right up until I went to University.” “The adolescent male is awash with
raging hormones,” I explained. “Couple that with the natural curiosity of
youth, and any public school in this country is a natural testing ground for
all sorts of sexual experimentation.” “Exact and clinical, Doctor. But
experiments don’t break your heart.” I nodded. “I made the mistake of
falling in love. For his part, he just enjoyed the act, but I wanted more of
the romance, rather than the sex. He kept pushing further, too,” I said,
blushing. “He wanted to try … well, what we used to call ‘all the way.’” “He wanted to insert –” “Yes,” I answered quickly,
blushing. “And you didn’t want to go that
far.” “I wasn’t sure if I did. If he had
just told me that he loved me, I think I would have tried it readily. But he
didn’t love me, not any more than he loved anyone else,” I finished darkly. “So you found him with someone
else.” “The night that I finally decided
I wanted to try … what he’d been asking for, I went to his bedroom, thinking
I’d surprise him. I found him … I found him doing it to Preston Phillips of the
second form.” Holmes squeezed my shoulder, and I
stared off into the empty fire, where the morocco case still lay in the grate.
I pulled my gaze away. “I dove straight into my books and
didn’t come out except for rugby games and holidays. I only spoke to him once
after that, just after he had been expelled. The very next term, he’d gotten
caught with another boy behind the stables. I don’t know why, but I just had to
see him.” I paused, remembering the pale
ghost that had greeted me in his father’s parlour. They had not insisted upon a
chaperone, because that, of course, would to be to admit their son’s heinous
crime, but the door had been left open, and a scowling maidservant with a face
like a lemon had stayed well within sight, folding and re-folding the same
tablecloth in the hallway with a grim woman whom I could only assume was the
distressed Mrs. Worthington. I remembered Worthington’s tear-rimmed
eyes and unhealthy pallor. I was the only friend who had visited, and I could
tell that he would have greeted any of his conquests with the same subdued
mixture of gratitude and contrition. Unbidden, my gaze returned to the vile
morocco case in the grate. Holmes may
never betray me with another man, I thought, but what about his promise to me? “No, dearest, I shall not betray
you for the cocaine bottle,” he said softly, caressing my arm. “You read me so well,” I murmured.
“How is it you did not deduce how much I love you?” Sherlock Holmes shook his head
with a rueful smile. “Do you really need to ask that, old fellow? How often
have I told you that emotions cloud the faculties of observation and deduction?
My feelings for you made it quite impossible for me to know for sure how you
might feel for me. Any glimmer of affection I saw, I immediately attributed to
my own hopes and desires. I did, however,” he finished, with a twinkle in his
eye, “manage to deduce that you were – quite reasonably – furious with me for
leaving you.” I smiled down at him. I who knew
him so well could see the regret in his eyes. Now that we had nothing to hide,
I could see that he had been hurt by our separation even more than I had. I
leaned over him and kissed his lips. “I am no longer angry with you, my
darling,” I whispered. “I understand why you ran away.” “And I understand why you ran this
morning.” “I’m glad you came back to me,” I
told him. “As I am glad you came back.” We kissed for a long time, our
lips caressing and reassuring each other. “So tell me about your final
conversation with Worthington,” Holmes said in a low voice, softly stroking my
chest. “There isn’t much to tell. It was
awkward and short and I went home and masturbated into a handkerchief before
crying myself to sleep. I was fourteen and I was sure I was a pervert.” I
laughed bitterly. “Of course, next year, I discovered girls and found that they
could be quite a bit of fun … you do know that I am still attracted to women,”
I added awkwardly. “I mean, I shan’t stray, but …” “But the fair sex will always be your
department, old friend,” Holmes chuckled lowly. “So what happened to
Worthington?” “Apparently, he went on to London
University. He must have been there the same time as I was, but the medical
school is rather –” “John,” he interrupted gently,
“you’re stalling. What happened to Worthington? Was he caught again?” I nodded, closing my eyes. “He …
well according to the blackguard who got me with the table leg, he was caught
with another student. This time, he hung himself.” I sank down into my lover’s arms
and we lay thus for a long time. “John?” “Hmm?” “Why did my mentioning India upset
you?” “His … the man he was caught with
was sent to India.” “Ah.” He stroked my hair
thoughtfully. “So you were caught with Victor
Trevor?” I asked after a long while. “Just after his father’s funeral.
We would have been more cautious, but he didn’t want to sleep alone that night.
The chambermaid found us still in bed together the next morning. The whole
thing was hushed up, for my family’s sake and his. Victor was sent to India,
and my father disowned me. I had to drop out of Cambridge, though I was able to
get a fair scholarship to Oxford, so –” “Your father disowned you?” “Sherringford Holmes,” said my
friend in a low voice, “is a cruel man without a shred of human kindness. How
do you think I was so readily able to imitate a brain without a heart?” “But what of your mother?” Holmes stiffened in my arms. “She
died giving birth to me,” he said slowly. “So the old sinner hated me long
before he found out about my proclivities. My scandal only confirmed his stated
belief that I should never have been born.” I gaped at my companion in shock. “To
judge a child for the circumstances of his birth –” “To my father,” he interrupted
bitterly, “one’s birth is everything. After all, that is what the so-called
nobility is all about.” “Holmes, are you –” He waved a long thin hand in an
impatient gesture. “The Right Honourable the Marquess of Cheltenham has made it
clear that I am not to claim his paternity in public, not that I’d want to. Oh,
don’t look like that, old fellow,” he chuckled at my expression. “There’s no
money, just a crumbling manor house with three or four barely habitable rooms, a
disgracefully ugly coat of arms, and a few acres of bog that no one in their
right mind would ever buy. Mycroft’s little joke is that he’ll split his
inheritance with me when the old man dies,” he finished with a bitter laugh. “So after Victor Trevor …” I began
slowly. “I decided that I’d had enough. For
well over a decade, my entire sexual life has consisted of my hand and my
fantasies of you.” “Your fantasies of –” I blushed
furiously, and Holmes held me tightly. “My dearest John,” he whispered,
kissing my brow, “you have no idea how long I have suffered in silence,
foolishly believing that I would lose you if I told you how I felt. I have
loved you since almost the moment I saw you.” “I rather thought you were swept up
in the haemoglobin test you were running when we met,” I chuckled, lifting my
mouth to his for another kiss. I could feel my arousal starting again as we
caressed each other tenderly. “For the record,” I murmured, kissing his cheek,
“you could have had me for the asking any time.” “All these years wasted,” he
sighed. “Not wasted, my love,” I replied
quickly. “After all, if I hadn’t been convinced of your unemotional demeanour,
I would not have been able to create such a believable account of it. So now,
no one will suspect that Sherlock Holmes could be in love.” Holmes frowned slightly. “Except
for Inspector Lestrade.” “Well, he knows us better than the
general public. And he’s more … open to the possibility of such a
relationship.” Holmes fixed me with a look. “He must
have a relative who is an invert,” he said slowly. I nodded; there was no use denying
it. “It was a simple deduction,”
Holmes murmured, almost to himself. “If not one himself, then it was the only
other possibility.” We held each other in silence, Holmes frowning up at the
ceiling, absentmindedly stroking my shoulder. “I don’t think I need to tell you
that we will have to exercise the utmost caution,” he continued, “particularly
as we are continually in the public eye and surrounded by the police, most of
whom would not be as understanding as our friend.” He kissed my forehead,
giving a deep sigh of tristesse. “We will be playing a dangerous game, old
friend.” I was suddenly conscious of our
nakedness, and I shivered slightly, drawing him closer to me. “I’m well used to
danger, Holmes,” I said bravely. “Last night –” “Last night,” Holmes interrupted
sharply, “we risked our lives and our safety for the good of the community.
Tonight,” he continued, laying a finger on my lips, “we are about to risk our
status in that community, as well as our reputations, even our freedom, for the
sake of forbidden pleasure. Are you absolutely certain you wish to do this?” For answer, I took his finger in
my mouth, then, releasing it slowly, ran my tongue up its length, fixing my
eyes upon his with as much smouldering passion as I could muster. I wished to
leave no doubt in my mind as to my desire. “John,” he said reproachfully, “I
am quite serious. This is –” I stopped him with a fierce kiss,
rolling atop him and grinding my hips into his. “I am also quite serious,” I
told him. “This is not about forbidden pleasure. This is about love, a force
which even you admit holds no reason or predictability. And as for being
absolutely certain in my intent,” I hissed, “perhaps I should ask you the same
question. You wrote of giving yourself to me totally and completely, within and
without. Well, I’m here to tell you that I accept your offer. Now, are you
still willing?” I had never before seen my
companion at a loss for words. His grey eyes gleamed strangely in the dim room
as he bit his lip and nodded, looking suddenly vulnerable. I gently grasped his
chin in my hand and brought his mouth up to mine, kissing him once more before
rising to my feet. He looked up at me quizzically, raising himself up on one
elbow. I smiled, realizing that, after years of devoted submission, I was
finally in charge. Fortunately, I had had an
excellent teacher. “Come, Holmes,” I said, spinning upon my heel and heading to
the door. “Bring our clothes.” “John?” he called softly. I turned on the threshold. “Yes,
my love?” I smiled at the sound of the endearment. I could not believe this was
happening; I half-fancied I might wake any moment, but pushed the fear away. Holmes bowed his head slightly,
fluttering his long, dark lashes in an almost coquettish manner. “May I fetch
something from my room?” We both knew that he did not need
to ask permission, but his very act of posing the question left me breathless,
as he left no doubt between us that he found this reversal in our respective rôles
as arousing as I did. My smile widened as I considered the possibilities, and
my member stiffened noticeably. “It’s a good thing,” said Sherlock
Holmes with a chuckle, “that Mrs. Hudson is on holiday. You would shock the
life out of her, walking around like that.” “Just fetch what you need,” I answered
with a jesting growl, “and then bring that gorgeous arse of yours upstairs in
short order.” *** Once upstairs in my room, my
bravado – and my erection – faded rapidly. What in the devil did I think I was
doing? I pulled on my old red dressing-gown and turned down the covers of the
bed, idiotically wondering whether I should greet him standing by the door or
sitting on the bed, whether I should turn down the lamp, or if I should simply
barricade my door and never emerge from my room ever again. A soft tap on the door made my
heart leap into my throat. “Come,” I croaked, my voice breaking. The eyes that met mine looked
every bit as nervous as I felt, and although Holmes retained his careful
composure, I could tell that his nerves were stretched tauter than a drum; his
thin, white hands trembled ever so slightly upon the doorknob, and his lips
were pressed tightly together into a straight line. I could not believe it; he was
more scared than I. I blush to confess it, but, for some reason I still cannot
fathom, the evidence of Holmes’ fears drove all mine away. I smiled in relief
and reached out a hand. “Come here, my darling William,” I
murmured, and took his hand in mine. I led him to the bed, sitting down and
motioning for him to sit beside me. He had also put on his most comfortable
dressing-gown, and I smiled as I fingered the mouse-coloured fabric. “Don’t be
nervous, my love,” I continued, and boldly kissed his cheek. Holmes gave a dry chuckle. “You
sound as if you’re reassuring a nervous virgin.” I frowned suddenly. “Holmes, I’m
not sure how to ask this, but –” “Nervous? Yes? Virgin? Not
entirely,” he admitted. “Not entirely?” Holmes ducked his head, peering at
me from behind his long black lashes as he blushed charmingly. “Victor and I …”
he sighed. “But only the once,” he finished in a barely audible whisper, “the
night before we were discovered.” I pulled him to me in a long hug,
kissing his forehead. “We don’t have to –” “I want to.” With a trembling hand
he reached into his dressing-gown pocket and pulled out a tin on salve, which
he placed upon the bedside table with a shy smile. “I want to give myself to
you,” he murmured. I kissed his cheek. “Within and
without?” I asked, my lips caressing his ear. “Within and without,” he
whispered. My lips trailed down his neck as I
left kisses upon his shoulders and collarbone, sliding the dressing-gown from
his back and slowly lowering him onto the bed. I kissed his smooth chest,
drawing each rosy nipple into my mouth and teasing them lightly in turn,
eliciting a sound from Holmes that I can only describe as a mew, as he arched
his back in a decidedly feline manner. His long arms snaked around my
shoulders and pulled him down atop me, groaning as my kisses strayed lower,
moving to his waist. I pulled apart his dressing gown and paused a moment to
admire the sight: already Holmes’ prick stood to attention, like him, long and
thin, the hair coal-black. I admired the pendulous ballsac, bending to kiss it
first, my tongue flickering out to lick each globe lightly, smiling as Holmes
groaned in delight. I kneaded his muscular thighs as I began moving higher
again, running my lips slowly from the base of his cock to the very tip, ending
with a teasing lick to his glans, my tongue briefly tickling the hole. Holmes
gripped the edges of the bed, his head thrashing back and forth as I took him
as deeply as I could, then released him nearly all the way to the tip, and then
swallowed him again. I sucked him in and out slowly, enjoying the salty-musky
flavour of his cock, which throbbed and bucked under my ministrations as Holmes
mumbled and swore, first in English, then in French, his eyes screwed tight
shut and his hips thrusting under me. “John,” he gasped, “stop, please.” I peered up at him, frowning in
puzzlement. Holmes smiled slightly, lifting
his head. “I want you inside me,” he whispered. I took a deep breath and reached
for the tin of salve while Holmes put a pillow underneath his hips, spreading
his legs for me. I knelt between his thighs and took a large dollop of salve,
my hand shaking slightly as I lifted his ballsac to reveal the puckered
entrance below. My lover moaned and rolled his head back as I inserted one
greased finger, then two, into his anus, and when I brushed against his
prostate, Holmes began writhing uncontrollably, whimpering only slightly as I
removed my fingers. I let my dressing gown slide to
the floor as I stood before him, my heart beating wildly as I placed the tip of
my penis at his hole. I paused, looking down at Holmes, who laid open before
me, as vulnerable and as naked as a newborn babe, his chest heaving, his prick
throbbing, a single drop of pearly fluid shining at the tip. He opened his grey
eyes and looked up at me, flashing me a nervous grin. “Take me,” he whispered. “Take me,
my love, all the way.” I pushed myself in slightly, the
tight muscle barring my entrance. “Open for me,” I murmured, reaching forward and
tickling his ballsac lightly. The twitching sphincter relaxed and opened, and I
thrust myself inside Holmes, groaning as his tight hole closed around me,
enveloping me in his heat. I reached for his hand and
squeezed it, taking his pulsing member in my other hand. “I love you,” I told
him, as I began pumping myself inside him. “I love you with all my heart, my
darling.” Holmes squirmed in pleasure, his
long dark eyelashes fluttering as I began thrusting in earnest. “Yes, John,” he
moaned faintly. “Oh, John, I belong to you. All yours, John. Take me.” “You are mine,” I echoed, speeding
up, and tugging at his twitching cock, milking it in time to the rhythm of my
hips. “Tell me again,” I growled, as my thrusts became fierce in their
intensity, each plunge inside my lover sending waves of pleasure radiating out
from my ballsac to the tips of my toes and the top of my head. “Tell me you’re
mine.” “I belong to you, John Watson,”
Holmes panted, his words coming in frantic puffs in between my thrusts. “I … belong
… to … you … ahhhh …” his speech degraded into animalistic grunts as his prick
exploded, his seed spilling out over my hand and onto his belly. The
contractions of his inner muscles drove me over the edge and into my own
climax, and I roared with my final thrusts inside him, finally collapsing onto
the bed atop him. We lay together thus for a long time, gasping like spent fish
as we slowly recovered from our exertions. Holmes kissed my forehead and
chuckled softly. “I never do get your depths, Watson.” I smiled a little at this.
“Actually, I believe you shall get my depths – tomorrow, if not later
to-night.” It actually took Holmes some few
seconds to get this weak pun, and when he did, he blushed heavily, clutching me
tightly to his breast with trembling arms. “So, then, you honestly wish to
submit to my perverted desires thrice daily?” he asked with a nervous laugh. I kissed his nipple, causing him
to shiver slightly. “What we just shared isn’t a perversion, William,” I told
him softly. “But yes, I shall be honoured to partake in any sexual act you
desire, my love.” Sherlock Holmes sighed
contentedly, stroking my back as I snuggled further into his embrace. “Call me
that again,” he murmured. “My love,” I repeated, and lifted
my head to kiss him. Our lips remained locked for some time, and as I withdrew
from the kiss, I could feel the weariness of sleep begin as the events of the
day took their toll. I drew the covers over us with a yawn, wrapping my arms
around Holmes. I had almost drifted off to sleep
when Holmes suddenly sprang to his feet, diving for his dressing gown. “What in –” I mumbled sleepily. “I almost forgot,” said he,
pulling something out of his dressing gown pocket. I watched with considerable
interest as he walked across the room, his lean buttocks demanding my attention
as I remembered how I had taken him. Even spent, my prick stiffened slightly as
I watched my lover cross the room and return to bed, his own cock swinging
loosely between his legs. I welcomed him back to the bed with a passionate
embrace, thrusting my tongue between his lips and rolling atop him, the paper
in his hand crackling as I crushed it between us. Eventually, Holmes managed to pull
away. “John Watson,” he gasped, “you are an incurable wanton.” I gave him a leering smile. “Then
I should say we’re well matched,” I answered. I pulled him to me once again,
smothering him with furious kisses to his face and neck. The next time Holmes pulled away,
it was with such a twinkle in his eye that I had to pause to hear what he had
to say. “Don’t you want to read the letter?” said he. “Letter? What letter – oh, that letter,” I laughed. In the passion
of this new love, I had forgotten what had brought us together. Holmes handed
me the letter with a slightly reproachful look, and I thanked him with another
kiss, running my tongue along his lips and savouring his unique taste, a
mixture of strong tobacco and brandy. Withdrawing from his lips with
some reluctance, I rolled to his side and unfolded the letter, quickly finding
the paragraph where I had let off:
[Here I paused momentarily to give my dear love a kiss and reassure him of my affection before reading on:]
I folded the letter and carefully
placed it upon the bedside table, then turned to Holmes, who looked at me with
trepidation clouding his slate-grey eyes. I touched his cheek lightly, my own
eyes rimmed with tears. “I never knew,” I whispered, and
leaned in to give him a single, chaste kiss. “My dear, sweet William, I never
knew.” Holmes touched his forehead to
mine, heaving a long, weary sigh. “There are other letters,” he said quietly.
“A whole stack of them, at the bottom of that trunk. After a while, they became
a sort of journal. If you like, I shall put them in order for you to read.” I kissed him softly, and snuggled
into his arms. “I should be honoured to read them, old friend. But let us not
dwell too much on the past. Now we are together and …” I paused. “And what happens now?” Holmes
asked, voicing my fears and his. I swallowed hard. “Now we sleep.
Tomorrow, you will move what things you wish into this room; it is now your
bedroom as well as mine. And then –” “But Mrs. Hudson –” I nodded, laying a finger against
my lover’s lips. “We shall have to have a long, careful discussion with Mrs.
Hudson. She is a good, patient woman and has tolerated much beyond the ordinary
from her lodgers; I do not think she shall betray our secret.” “But –” “Holmes, if there is one thing you
have taught me, it is to live my life unhindered by petty fears. There is no
way that we could hide this development in our relationship from the woman who
cooks our meals and does our laundry; thus, we shall have to trust her.” “But Watson, what if –” I silenced him with another kiss,
and then laid down, pulling the covers over us. “No more talk, William. Sleep
now, and we will face the world tomorrow. And whatever comes, we shall deal
with it together.” “Together,” Holmes echoed, his
voice soft. I ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, Holmes.” I chuckled and leaned over to turn down the lamp. “If all else fails, we can move to India. I hear they’re bang alongside any perversion out there.” |
Home Monographs Authors Latest Additions Gallery The Radio Parlour Moving Pictures
Sites of Interest Submissions Acknowledgements Contact