|
For several days, Holmes and I were engaged in a most frightful mystery, the
details of which I am not at liberty to disclose. Due to the nature of this
case, neither Sherlock Holmes nor myself had much time at home, let alone
together, and so it was well over a week before I was able to check up on my
friend and inquire as to his well-being.
He was unsurprisingly dismissive
of his injury and loathe to repeat the inspection. However, upon my insistence,
he dutifully agreed to prepare himself and I joined him in his bedroom to check
on his progress.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” The lighting was terrible.
Holmes refused to turn up the lamps, and so I was operating in shadow. Luckily,
I had performed dozens of surgeries in the dark during the war. But it was
difficult enough trying to be gentle in the awkward position between Holmes’
legs. Now I couldn’t see as well.
“Ouch!” he said again, as I prodded
his injury. I was pleased to feel that it had healed nicely.
“If you had
turned up the lamps as I had instructed, I would not be doing this by feel,” I
snapped at him. “You will just have to suffer if you want to do it in the dark.”
Again the words, suggestive, arousing. I swallowed to keep my focus. I reminded
myself that what my task here was anything but sexual.
But I could see
Holmes’ scrotum, crushed against the bed. The skin was smooth, almost shiny, a
delightful pink color. I could smell his groin, salty and musky. His back side
had healed quite nicely, and now presented itself as a delectable round opening,
stretched enough to allow a lovely entrance.
I shook my head once more.
I had to clear my mind. I had always held very strongly to my ethic of removing
all sexual connotation whilst dealing with patients. People could detect such
things, and there is nothing more abhorrent than a doctor taking advantage of
his relationship with the injured.
But even though I considered myself an
adequate actor, somehow, Holmes knew me too well, or was too great a student of
human body language to allow my uncomfortable arousal from remaining
undetected.
“You all right, Watson? You seem flushed.”
“Stop
moving,” I told him, pushing his lower back down against the bed. I used the tip
of my finger to feel the edges of the healed tear, and Holmes sucked in
breath.
“There,” I told him. I patted his buttocks again affectionately.
They were so pale, so perfect. Not a hair marred their alabaster surface. I
wanted to run my fingers between them. “All done.”
Holmes immediately
shifted to get up, but I pressed him back down. “Hold on, let me apply more
salve.” It was needed, I told myself. He needed it for healing. But as I spread
the warm gel onto my fingers, I began to wonder if it was really necessary at
this stage. His healing had been rapid and complete. What good would the salve
do now?
I rubbed the salve inside with slow, gentle movements. As I did
so, I could see Holmes shift uncomfortably on the bed. My attentions were giving
him an erection, and his member grew against the mattress.
“Watson!
That’s enough!” he finally hissed, pulling away from me.
I quickly
regained my composure. “Sorry, Holmes. I just don’t want to have to do this
again.”
“You won’t.” He tied his robe shut and scooted as far away from
me as possible. He looked towards his wall. His profile was stunning. But his
cheeks were bright red, and his eyes looked large and burned with arousal and
misery. He obviously had no idea that I had enjoyed touching him there. He
thought he was the only one who had inappropriate feelings.
“Well then.
All better.” I cleared my throat and put my belongings back into my bag. Holmes
was silent.
“Sit for a minute,” he said as I made to leave. I sat beside
him on the bed, and smiled warmly.
“Yes?”
He looked at me briefly.
“I want to apologize. You have gone far beyond the call of duty and of
friendship in your… ministrations.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Holmes, if
you had only seen some of the things I’ve had to do since getting my medical
degree.” I laughed then, and he seemed to relax once more.
“Oh? What is
the worst case you have treated?” he asked.
I leaned back as I thought
about it. “It has to be poor Johnson, from the second brigade,” I told him.
Holmes lit a cigarette for me, and I smoked it as we talked. “He got an entire
hatchet up the back side.”
Holmes grimaced. “How awful.”
“Indeed.”
I was finally relaxed now as well. “And once I had a patient – a woman – who had
developed a habit of pleasuring herself with various household
objects.”
Holmes’ eyes grew very wide. “How filthy!”
“Mm. It must
have served her quite well, until something got stuck. That was an awkward case
to resolve.”
I saw that my stories had achieved their intended purpose,
which was to make him relax once more. He smiled languidly at me.
“I see
then that my own depravity is hardly news to a medical man of your experience.”
“As long as there have been men buggering each other, Holmes, there will
be the need for doctors to tend to them.”
Holmes’ mouth opened, agape at
my coarseness. But then he choked on his laughter. “So true, my dear Watson, so
true!”
I squeezed his arm once more. I liked the feel of him under my
fingers, warm and solid. “But if its all the same to you, I would prefer that
you keep your activities from hurting you in the future.” I hesitated. I knew I
was overstepping my boundaries, but as his friend and his doctor, I could not
help myself. “And Holmes… no more rent boys, all right? Go to a gentlemen’s
club. Go somewhere else. But the boys on the street are likely to give you
something far worse than a sore backside. Syphilis is on the
rise.”
Holmes’ mirth instantly departed. He pulled his arm out of my
grasp. “Enough advice for one day, Watson. Now leave me alone.”
“I’m just
worried about your health.”
“Let me take care of my own body, thank
you.”
I had much more I wanted to say on the issue, but I was merciful,
and left him alone.
Chapter
Four
|
