Harry: Chapter Nineteen

Appetite

by Liederlady

Notes

Faint light streaming through the gauze curtains and the pelting of heavy rain against the cottage roof woke me. The agreeable weight of Holmes’s sleeping form pressed against me, his black hair fanned out upon my right shoulder, one hand curled against my bared chest. In a rush of images and sensations, recollections of the night’s events filled my mind.

I had behaved abominably.

My self-reproach, however, failed to deter my body’s reaction to Holmes’s proximity. Even as I strove to ignore the erection pressing against his angular hip, my hands slid up his torso and met the naked skin of his back.

Good heavens, were we both indecently exposed?

I found the collar of his pyjama top bunched at his waist and pulled on it in an attempt to cover him, but the position of his arms blocked my progress. Holmes stirred, his face turning toward me, his moist, hot breath warming my throat. A soft groan escaped his lips and his legs shifted over mine.

He was also aroused; from the feel, amply so. Not a surprising condition at this time of morning for either of us as young men, but our current poses and what had gone on hours before highly disturbed me. And stimulated me—enough to prompt my hips to involuntarily flinch upward, rubbing my member against his thigh.

The pale hand that rested on my chest opened and its fingers splayed against my left breast, long fingers reaching my collarbone, their tips massaging gently. I glanced over at Holmes’s face to find his sleepy eyes trying to focus. His head jerked up from my shoulder and a momentary shadow of alarm skittered across his features. Then a small smile curved his lips.

“Watson.”

The way he whispered my name drew my hand to his cheek then his neck. Before my mind could form a dissenting thought, I was pulling him toward me for a kiss.

Holmes’s lips were yielding. And the skin at the nape of his neck was silky soft. Were I less honest, I could persuade myself that his fair colouring, graceful frame and sheer beauty leaned toward the feminine. But there was nothing feminine about the scrape of his chin against my throat, the strength of his wiry arms clasping my torso, the muscled thighs straddling mine. There was little question of gender in the heady sensation of his stiff member grinding against me or the husky growl escaping those gifted lips between kisses.

Despite a suitably restrained nature, I was no stranger to base desire. This young man had inflamed it within me. I had spent a month trying to deny my obsession with him. But now ...

We wrangled with each other, testing the other’s strength, vying for both breath and superiority. Holmes’s slender hands were everywhere, rubbing, fondling, squeezing, threading through my hair and trailing down my cheeks. My own hands tore violently at his already dishevelled clothing, striving to bare that porcelain skin covering the lithe framework of sinew and bone. He had been exposed to my clinical gaze before but I had never seen him like this … wanted, needed to see him.

Holmes’s upper torso bore the ruddy flush of arousal and his always-piercing eyes glittered. His mouth was a conductor of heat, igniting charges, fuelling my uncontrolled response of skin and muscle and nerves wherever it touched; cheeks … lips … throat … shoulder … bicep … breast. His mouth, plying my breast as my own had done with women, stirred something previously untouched deep in my gut. Gripping his head for greater contact, my other arm ensnared his slim waist. In that moment, my bulkier frame flipped him to his back on the bed.

His eyes darted upward, widening with shock, but in the moment I cared little for either his desire or state of mind. My own was clouded by the white-flamed promise of his mouth and my chest arched harder upon it for the attention I required, my lips drawing back in a strained grimace in response to his gasps and half-hearted struggling.

For an instant, Holmes nearly threw me off, but I pressed down and gripped his head tighter. Then he yielded. All resistance ebbed from his body and he gave what I demanded. There was a grunt and I was uncertain whether it emerged from him or me. But its source did not matter as an exhilarating sense of conquest rippled through me. The masterful and once-aloof boy had yielded.

I released his head, but held my needy, upper torso curled against that attentive mouth. Both hands now freed, I reached down to catch at his legs, hooking my arms under his muscled thighs as my hips instinctively thrust in rough anticipation. I had never practiced the Greek art, but the boy’s compliance spurred heady memories of women I had so taken. Even professional tarts must sometimes concern themselves with pregnancy and perform accordingly.

I knew precisely what to do.

Had Holmes simply continued his attention to my breast that morning’s events would likely have progressed rather predictably. His mouth tended my nipple with an increased intensity that kindled my lust and implied his own. But for an instant, it left off and I felt his fingers replace his tongue and lips.

“John,” he murmured in so subdued a whisper that I barely heard it.

I glanced down, expecting to meet his lust-laden, encouraging gaze. But his eyes were averted, trained instead upon the task his fingers were now diligently performing for me. I drew my head back, wanting to see more of his body, curled up under me, positioned for my thrusts. I wanted to see his ample, glistening arousal as we joined.

But he was no longer erect.

“Look at me,” I said, surprised at my gruff tone.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered upward. I could see no fear. Neither did desire light them. Rather, the grey gaze seemed to reflect an aspect of resigned expectation.

“For the love of …” I cried, immediately releasing him and scrambling back awkwardly. His fingers still mechanically plied my breast until I withdrew from their reach.

“I am sor--” I began.

He was stock still before me feet now flat on the bed, knees upraised. He appeared frozen, likely in shock from my abhorrent intent.

“Please--” I said, but my throat tightened around my next words.

He blinked at me, wearing so confused an expression that I was reminded of a small, lost child uncertain of which path it should select to reach home and safety. I wanted to hold him, reassure him, but I had no right to do so. I had completely blasted any trust the young man had ever placed in me.

“I am--,” I tried to apologize once more, but knew mere words could offer no balm to soothe what I had done. What I had been about to do.

Holmes’s head cocked to one side and his lips, swollen by our kisses, pursed. Despite the gravity of the situation, I could not help but smile at the impatient gesture.

Holmes lips slowly mimicked the actions of mine.

“I presumed I had done something to displease you,” he said with a sigh.

“You? No, of course not. I am to blame, I behaved abominably,” I sputtered.

His brows furrowed and the grey eyes dipped for a brief, appraising glance at my member, now quite flaccid.

“You desired me.”

The declarative did not match his tone or the vulnerability of his posture. I had to drop my own gaze.

“Yes.”

I felt motion and his long legs folding together entered my field of vision as he sat.

“What made you st-- what adversely affected you?”

Glancing up at his face revealed he was, indeed, unaware.

“I-- you deserve-- need some-- I want to--”

I growled in frustration. I knew what needed to be said. Why could I not simply say it?

“You merit better treatment. I want--”  

Holmes leaned forward, fixing me with his intense gaze.

“What do you want, Watson?”

I looked at him and shook my head. What did I want, indeed?

“Do you wish me to retire to my own room?” Holmes asked.

“No!” I blurted out.

At first, Holmes appeared surprised. Then he smiled and reached out to my shoulder and pulled me toward him.

“Then come and lie with me,” he said, drawing me down to the pillow with him. “For you look regularly done.”

I doubted the wisdom of doing so, but could not resist the warm promise of his invitation. It took a few moments for me to arrange myself appropriately, and I blushed as our flaccid members grazed each other and my legs bumped against his.

“I confess, dear fellow, I have never before met a man who can blush as though it is a compliment,” Holmes said chuckling. He finally stopped my nervous shifting by catching my legs between his own. His arms curved round my waist, pulling my torso as close to his as was humanly possible. I began reaching down for covers and found one corner of the sheet upon which I tugged to try and cover Holmes.

“What are you doing, Watson?” he asked with more than a trace of irritation.

“I am covering you.”

“No need. I am not cold.”

It was my turn to purse my lips as I inclined my head toward his face.

“I am still covering you.”

He took one hard look at me and yielded, chuckling again.

“I do not agree with those who hold modesty as a key virtue, I must tell you.”

“Shh.” And I yanked harder at the sheet. Holmes unwound his legs from mine and lifted his hips to release another end of it so I managed to get more of it settled over him.

“And what of you? Is it your intent to lie there indecently revealed and tempt me into disreputable behavior, doctor?” he asked, his voice actually managing a purr.

Although I tried to hide it, I blushed again. It was not really an affliction from which I usually suffered, but this young man seemed to inspire embarrassment in me. Though I suppose anyone would, considering our mutual degree of impropriety. My hand defensively drew down to cover my member, inadvertently grazing his in the process. My already bright face glowed hotter.

Holmes only chuckled some more before he sat up, pulled the covering free from under us both and flung it out to flutter over both our bodies. When he reclined upon the pillow again, his legs wound round mine once more as though they belonged there. His hips twitched against me, shifting his body until his member flopped on my upper thigh just below mine. I tried to ignore the fact, but my mind would not allow it.

“Better?” Holmes asked then reached over to tip up my jaw.

His eyes danced with amusement and something else—I doubted it was desire as I could feel his prick remained limp. But there was some other emotion glittering in the greyness.

He lowered his head to kiss me. It was chaste but still I shuddered. I was quite surprised when he did as well. He drew back to regard me again with widened eyes and a boyish smile playing upon those lips.

“You are most attractive, my friend. It is likely unwise for us to remain in this state if you do not care to further explore pleasurable pursuits. I find you profoundly distracting.” He spoke in that half-haughty, half-seductive tone which inspired a desire to either cuff or embrace him.

I did neither.

“Do you wish to leave then?”

“I do not,” Holmes said, his smile broadening.

“Good,” I said far more confidently than I felt. “Perhaps we can both get a few hours of sleep before we must rise.”

And with that I settled my head on the pillow drew my arms up to my chest and closed my eyes. I felt Holmes watching me for some moments and it took all of my control not to raise my eyelids. I could not, however, prevent their frightful fluttering. Eventually, I sensed his head touch the pillow next to me and felt the heat of his breath on my forehead.

“You are a curious fellow, John Watson,” he whispered.

Typically, when I am tired I have little trouble drifting off. I was exhausted, but Holmes was not alone in his distraction. I had to focus all my concentration on keeping my legs and arms still. My palms were curled against my chest, but Holmes’s smooth pectorals pressed against the backs of my hands, one of his nipples poking between two knuckles of my right. Despite my best efforts, I could not dispel the memory of his lips and tongue on my own breast or the even more disturbing thought of reciprocating.

Certainly it could not be as arousing as sucking a woman’s nipple?

“Are you certain you wish me to remain?” Holmes suddenly said.

“Hmm? Why?”

He cleared his throat twice before responding and it was then I noticed that his member had begun to swell.

“Your hand and hip movements, though I am certain inadvertent, are rather stimulating,” he said.

His member was proving the truth of his words. As was the increased hardness of the nipple pressed against my knuckles.

“I am sorry. I did not realize I was moving. I have been trying not to. I--”

Holmes tipped my chin up again.

“Do you often deny yourself in this manner?” he asked. The innocence in his tone touched me.

“Well, not in circumstances as this, but … yes.”

He quirked his cleft eyebrow at me.

“I am no maid whose virtue you need to protect,” he said.

“I am well aware you are no maid,” I muttered, prompting his amused smirk. “In regards virtue, doesn’t every person possess it to some degree?”

Holmes’s smirk vanished, his eyes narrowed and his thumb rubbed the healthy stubble that covered my chin.

“Not in my experience.”

Those words pierced me to my core, reminding me of his earlier admission of knowing few honorable men.

“My experience has been that everyone merits the benefit of the doubt and therefore respect until their behavior proves otherwise,” I said adamantly, gazing up into the unflinching, grey eyes.

“The respect of a true gentleman is a privilege to be earned,” Holmes murmured, now gazing into the middle distance.

 “There are some who more than merit the privilege,” I said.

And then I kissed him before he had a chance to respond. It was not chaste, but neither was it insistent. I wanted him. And I wanted him to feel less alone.

By the time I broke away, his brows were furrowed.

“Was that the wrong thing to do?” I asked.

Holmes’s eyes widened and the creases above them smoothed.

“Did you ask such things of the red-haired lady who was unfortunate enough to lose your favor?” Holmes asked.

I bolted upright, nearly knocking him from the bed.

“Wha-- How did--” 

His mesmerizing eyes blazed and a sly smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

“You must be a wizard,” I said, slowly shaking my head.

The smile widened and he clucked chidingly.

“No. A witch,” he said before his head dipped for another kiss. But I pressed fingers to his lips.

“You must tell me how you knew about her?”

Holmes’s eyelids fluttered closed a moment before he answered. When they opened again, the fingers of his right hand trailed lazily over my chest and down toward my abdomen. I caught his hand and enclosed his fingers in mine. Holmes sighed.

“There is no cause for such amazement, dear fellow. While you might find the deductive method employed unique, it is not supernatural, I assure you. I would venture that anyone with sufficient training and concentration could likely emulate it were they to heed their teacher,” Holmes said and bowed his head again to kiss me, but I cocked my head to dissuade him.

“How did you know?”

Holmes sighed again and his fingers squeezed mine.

“It is simplicity itself. Even when we first met at Radcliffe’s I could not help noticing the memento you wear upon your watch chain. It is a locket, a lady’s locket of quite some value. The style is old, possibly dating to the last century. It appears to be an item handed down through generations from mother to daughter.

“It was damaged. The hasp has been broken as though the pendant was torn from its chain. But someone—I can only assume it was you—has with infinite care, wound a thin wire of gold below the break and fashioned a substantial enough loop to be fastened to the fob chain. Such deliberate effort leads one to believe that you hold the piece in some value, apparently sentimental, as the defect rather lessens the trinket’s monetary value and it has not otherwise been repaired.

“The locket bears the initials, ERJ, none of which correspond with your paternal surname. At first, I suspected it might be an heirloom from your mother’s family. However, that possibility was precluded upon closer inspection early last evening prior to supper.”

He hesitated a moment, glancing down at our intertwined hands. His fingers rubbed my knuckles and the shy smile he wore earlier surfaced again. I shook my head, feeling a mixture of awe and confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

His smile broadened. The grey eyes peeked out under the dark lacy lashes and blinked several times. From anyone else, I would have described the action as coquettish.

“No, you do not. But you will. Before I lay bare my secret though, I shall ask you to share yours with me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Will you tell me of the lady and what she did to upset you?” Holmes asked, his head lifting, his eyes now lit with straightforwardness.

I frowned and drew my hand from his.

“A gentle--”

Holmes cut me off with a voice animated by anticipation.

“Was she a sweetheart or simply a--”

I scrambled out of and away from the bed, snatching up my dressing-gown from the chair and thrusting my arms into it.

“One gentleman would never expect another to bandy the name of a lady in such a fashion and certainly not under these circumstances,” I grumbled, staring down at the desk-top where my watch lay, the locket on the chain catching the morning’s revealing rays.

I sensed the boy behind me.

“I ask your pardon, Watson,” he murmured.

I shook my head in frustration. It had been years since memories of Lizzie washed through me. Although Holmes’s teasing had ignited my ire, I found a sufficient measure burning for her as well. Forgetting Lizzie would never be possible, but I thought I had at least achieved resignation and forgiveness by now.

“Now you know my worst flaw,” Holmes said, as he laid his hand on my arm, “I often exhibit a deplorable deficiency when it comes to understanding the softer emotions. I truly did not intend to stir painful memories, dear fellow.”

I half-turned toward him, my eyes still downcast, and was greeted with the fullness of his nudity. Holmes’s milky skin gleamed in the brightening dawn, the long, lithe legs resembling graceful pillars supporting sharp arches of bony hips. Between them, the coarse thicket of pubic hair failed to conceal his half-turgid shaft and its dusky, glistening crown. Below that, his heavy, tight sac rode the curves of muscled white thighs.

The heady aroma of his musky scent wafted upward and, before I realized what I was doing, I inhaled deeply to savor it, my eyes closing. It is said that every person’s sexual scent is unique; Holmes’s carried faint traces of citrus.

When my ordered mind regained control of my thoughts, I opened my eyes, fully intending to put distance between myself and this boy. But my gaze was caught by the faint treasure trail that arrowed into his groin. My eyes travelled its path, up over the rippled abdomen and all-too-evident ribs. I tried to latch onto my clinical concern, but my body was having none of that.

My eyes lingered at the amber nipples, both hard peaks now, then the nearly delicate collarbones and thin shoulders I knew concealed deceptive strength. I swayed forward when my journey reached Holmes’s throat hollow and the ivory, curving line above it that nearly stretched too far upward, but was actual perfection. I knew women who dared not dream of being graced with so exquisite a neck as that. The stubble-peppered jaws that capped it oddly heightened its sleek attractiveness by offering a darker, more textured contrast to the gleaming porcelain below.

I blinked, knowing better than to look upon the rosy, thin lips which I had so recently kissed.

I was not a complete fool.

And then I was looking into his eyes, grey and black and oh-so-dangerously wide. They looked utterly wise and accomplished, yet fretful. I saw mysteries dwelling behind them, secrets and spells and magic that I wanted and needed to know.

Like Eve gazing up at branches of infinite and perilous knowledge within easy reach, I understood that I must not partake. But those eyes, glittering and inviting, danced in and out of view behind black fringes, heavily laden with succulent promise and adventure and danger and pleas--

Through a red-mist haze, I heard a strangled cry and a gasp and then low mewling sounds that confused me because women I had satisfied made similar noises. But my mind could spare neither energy nor attention for such pondering upon past conquests and my lips sucked harder at the thick nub of flesh currently held prisoner between them. I felt a sharp nip at my left earlobe, but did not flinch. In fact, I liked it and released the hard nipple to plead for more. And Holmes’s teeth obliged me.

My lips returned to feed at his left breast and now I understood that it was as inviting and arousing as any I had tasted. His skin had grown ruddy wherever my lips roamed and I had lingered here at the flesh which bore faint scars from a piercing, the flesh that stood out, begging for avid attention. And my tongue gave what it deserved, laving over the scars as though to wipe the memory of them away. My lips closed hard upon the peak and drew it out and in, drew so hungrily as though to bring forth milk or lifeblood itself.

Farther below was even needier flesh and my fingers did not refrain from tending to it, returning the favors Holmes’s beautiful hands were granting me. I kept them in view as I fed … his hands and mine … his shaft and mine.

We grappled against and with each other, half-struggling, half-supporting. Standing was increasingly difficult as dizziness and the swelling of private parts increased, so I used the side of the desk to aid me in keeping Holmes upright and I leaned heavily against him to support my own body.

A sudden surge of motion and a whirling sensation further disoriented me and I realized I was spinning through the air as though caught up within a mad cotillion, round and round and dancing backward until something jarred the back of my knees and I sat hard upon the bed, my legs widely splayed, feet pressing the floor and Holmes’s angular form pressing pleasantly down upon me.

My delectable treat escaped and the heated weight of Holmes’s body abandoned me as well. But another, far more intense and astounding heat descended to envelop my cock, liquid fire licking and bathing and burning my needy flesh.

Before my mind could acknowledge what was happening, a base and mercenary thought took hold within it … I would not need to pay extra for this rare delight. And my swollen lips smiled as my more swollen member flared, impossibly expanding further and my fingers clutched the bed-sheets in a death grip while my head thrashed from side to side, as though in protest.

But I was not protesting. This was wrong, dreadfully, shamefully, gloriously wrong, but I was definitely not protesting. I groaned acquiescence, even allegiance to the sin of my blood obediently pooling toward the source of the liquid fire.

My body reacted with the familiar churn deep in my balls and my lust-addled brain warned me I would soon spend.

‘Sweet mother--,’ I panted, and struggled to sit. I looked down but could see only a beautiful, black cap of silk, sleek and damp. My fingers tangled within its strands, gripping with fleeting strength, wanting to pull the fire closer, wanting to lose myself forever in its sweet, tormenting inferno.

“No,” I croaked, “I’m, I’m--”

I tried to pull him away from it but the skull beneath the black hair twisted, defiantly throwing off my strength-sapped fingers. Trying to rise also did not dissuade him, for slim, strong hands flew up to grip my hips and wrestle them back down to the mattress. Then I watched as the right hand descended to pull its own engorgement even as the liquid fire devoured mine.

Somehow, I spared breath for a lengthy moan.

I grew suddenly aware of a tickling, teasing probing at my nether end. My eyes widened as the pressure increased until my body was undeniably breached and I was no longer a man, no longer a separate being. Control of my body was wrested away and some dark force rutted my hips, now the hips of a beast which knows no creed but instinct. Then my center pulled upward with my hips, my very life fluid being summoned, as the commanding black crown of fire shifted and its two grey, glowing coals rose, blazing a pathway into my soul, claiming it along with my body … wrenching it from me in a paroxysm of lightning flashes upon a ruthless and unforgiving crimson vista.

I felt my worthless, boneless body falling down, down into the flames, into magnificent, everlasting iniquity and punishment and pleasure and I cried out the fire’s name again and again in hopeless supplication. My soul and body were no longer mine.

If the terms of such surrender demanded eternal damnation then whatever surviving fragment there might be of the man I had been would embrace its fate, so long as my eyes could see and feel the flames that glowed within those beautiful coals of slate.

Chapter Twenty: Like Him With Friends Possess'd