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Beltane	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 4848 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-Beltane
- 1
Title: Beltane
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t owns ‘em, I just plays with ‘em.

“Of course, beyond the obvious image that the May-pole evokes –”

“Have a care, Holmes!” I laughed, leaning back and surveying the merry crowd below us, dancing in the torchlight below. The villagers had set up a May-pole in the centre of the town square, arranging a rude grandstand from the hay-bales upon which my companion and I had taken our seats to observe what Holmes had termed “a fascinating study in folklore.”

The case which brought us to this small southern hamlet had been successfully concluded, and Holmes, in excellent spirits, had declared that we deserved a short holiday; I am certain that the festival had nothing to do with his decision, nor the fact that the landlord of the local inn – formerly a sous-chef at hotel in Calais – had bade us stay as his guests an extra night, promising a rich repast accompanied by the finest wines from his cellar for our supper. I must admit that under the influence of the inn’s most excellent vintages combined with the lush gratitude of the natives, we were both positively giddy, if not pleasantly inebriated.

“Pour me another glass of wine, old fellow. But seriously, you must admit that the symbolism –”

“Is obvious, yes,” I sighed, pouring myself another glass for myself after re-filling Holmes’. “The villagers are dancing around a giant representation of a phallus. I would think that you could try to be less puerile,” I added with mock disgust, hoping he would leave the joke behind of his own accord; I did not wish to discuss male potency with Sherlock Holmes for a few reasons, not least of which was the fact that we were situated in such a public venue.

“Surely, Watson, you can’t tell me you don’t see it?” Holmes continued doggedly. “The May-pole is not just a representation of a phallus.”

I rolled my eyes impatiently. “No, it’s the representation of divine masculine force, or the potency of creation, or celebration of virility, or what have you, but, honestly, Holmes, is there –”

“Once again, Watson, you see but you do not observe! You have left out exactly half of the representation. Look at the pole. What do you see?”

“I see the trunk of a tree, about fifteen feet high, with its branches shorn and a wreath placed on top. There are some four-and-twenty ribbons of red and white hanging from the wreath, each of which is being held by one of the dancers. I’m sure you could tell me a dozen things I have missed, but –”

Holmes interrupted me with a high barking laugh. “The wreath, Watson! What of the wreath?”

“Well, from here it looks like it’s made of some sort of –”

“What does it symbolize, Watson? If the pole itself is a phallus?”

“Holmes, I hardly – oh,” I added, the realization hitting me. “I always thought that the Earth –”

“Oh, indeed, the pole is thrust into Mother Earth with definite intent, but the wreath is where the true interaction between Primal Female and Primal Male take place.”

I squinted at my companion. “I never took you for a proponent of Natural Philosophy.”

“There is much you don’t know about me, my dear fellow.” Holmes downed his drink and smiled at me, sending shivers down my spine. Much to my dismay, his smiles had been doing that to me quite a lot recently, and I looked away quickly to hide my discomfort.

“Did you notice the motion of the dancers?”

“It looks like a simple enough folk dance.”

“Once again, Watson –”

“Yes, yes. Very well. I see that female dancers are moving one way round the circle, while their male counterparts move in the other direction. The youths are all holding the white ribbons while the maidens have taken the red, and they are weaving in and out of each others’ paths.”

“Excellent. Now observe what their dance has done to the ribbons where they attach to the wreath.”

“Why, it’s creating some sort of woven tube, rather like one of those finger-traps one sees in Christmas crackers, around the pole – I say!”

“Yes, rather evocative, wouldn’t you agree? Of course, as I was saying, beyond the obvious symbolism of the May-pole, the entire Mayday festival and all it implies presents a unique opportunity for the avid student of folklore. Of course, the May-pole dance is more properly performed during daylight; traditionally at this hour, the dancers would be leaping through the Bel-fire.”

“The what?”

“The Bel-fire. The dancers would –”

“A bell-fire? Surely you don’t mean they throw bells upon a fire?”

“No, Watson, Bel-fire. From the ancient fire-god of similar name. The dancers would leap through the fire as a primitive form of de-lousing. No, honestly,” he laughed, in response to my incredulous outburst. “It was customary to strip one’s clothes off –”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Well, I should think,” Holmes replied dryly, “that only an idiot would jump through a fire clothed. Free of clothing and properly wetted down, a person can leap through a bonfire quite safely. And after a few passes through a fire, any lice or other extraneous fauna upon one’s person quickly vacate the premises.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Holmes turned to face me, an extraordinary look upon his face. “Now, Watson, could you honestly imagine me dancing naked through a bonfire?”

I rapidly returned my attention to the dancers, cursing my over-stimulated imagination. “Well, thankfully all our dancers are decently clothed,” said I, a mite too heartily.

“And you don’t think at least one of those maidens might find her dress a little too warm for her later tonight? And do you not think that she might find a friend would be more than willing to help her loosen her décolletage?”

“Holmes, you are intolerable!”

“Ahh, dear friend, but that, too, is traditional. In ancient Britain, this was a time to steal away into the newly green woods with some paramour and celebrate all the joys of spring.”

“And no one forbade such licence?”

“To the contrary; it was considered a blessed union. In their simple pagan rites, all acts of love and pleasure were considered holy. Any two people coming together in the woods –”

“Well, certainly not any two people!” I coughed nervously, my face suddenly burning furiously.

“In fact, Watson, yes,” Holmes replied quietly. “I do mean any two people. The ancients believed that everyone had balanced forces of male and female within them; thus any two people, regardless of gender, might re-create the magic of divine feminine and divine masculine coming together. If, for instance, two women happened to meet in the woods and found some pleasure in each other’s embrace, no-one thought the worse of them for it.”

“And two men?” I could no more stop myself from posing the question than I could have lifted the haystack we sat upon with my little finger.

Holmes stretched out his arms, his hand quite coincidentally brushing mine, but still in that moment of contact I felt volumes conveyed through the touch of a single finger upon my wrist. Time stood still, the scales fell from my eyes, and I realized what a bloody ass I had been.

My companion stood up, looking up at the brilliant half-moon. “I think I shall take a walk in the woods,” said he in a somewhat absent voice. “Oh, don’t disturb yourself, Doctor. I won’t be far – I shall go just behind the cobbler’s shop there, and cut through the garden into the adjoining wood. There’s a path there; it forks only once. If one bears to the right, there’s a small hollow near a spring, quite sheltered and private, the perfect place to … smoke. I think I shall stop there a while, and ponder the joys of spring.” He paused a moment, scrutinizing the cloud-obscured disc for some time. Then he turned his gaze upon me, and I found myself transfixed, unable to breathe.

He favoured me with another shiver-inducing smile, and I no longer cared if I would ever breathe again.

Holmes did not seem to notice my shock, but instead nodded as if I had answered him. “Enjoy yourself watching the dancers a while more,” he remarked cheerily, “perhaps two or three more songs, eh? Then, you may follow – or not – as you will.”

I gaped at his retreating back as he melted effortlessly into the crowd, and my mind reeled with the implications of this recent exchange.

Quite simply, I could not believe it; a thousand masturbatory fantasies come true awaited me in the woods just beyond the village. How many nights had I lain awake in my lonely bed, contemplating the very eventuality that had just presented itself? For years I had secretly lusted for Holmes, pining for him in silence, assuming that he had no use for something as pedestrian as love.

But was it love he offered now? Or was it merely a romp in the woods he desired, an assignation free of emotional complications? I watched the dancers, mournfully contemplating my options. As much as I craved his touch, could I honestly indulge in what would be for him a meaningless act of sexual congress? Could I bear him taking his pleasure with my body while he pushed my feelings aside as inconsequential? I could not imagine him being so callous as to use me thus, but neither could I imagine him harbouring any such emotions, let alone for me.

Then I remembered the look in his eyes when he smiled.

In another moment, I had sprung from the haystack and was headed for the garden behind the cobbler’s shop, my heart pounding in my chest.

I barely remember stumbling through the back hedge and into the wood beyond, following the path to the right and into the small secluded clearing, where an ancient marble bench stood beside a small willow tree and a small spring bubbled from a nearby rocky outcrop. I noticed little else about this picturesque glade until much later, for there, leaning against a tree and smoking his pipe, stood Sherlock Holmes.

We did not speak; in the space of a heartbeat we were in each others’ arms, our mouths locked together in furious battle, our hands tearing at buttons and ripping through cotton. Holmes’ cloak already lay just at the foot of the bench, and we tumbled upon it together, wrestling furiously together until we had removed all but the most intimate of our apparel.

I shivered as the cool wind touched my naked skin, and moaned when Holmes’ lips followed, leaving a trail of burning kisses from my jaw down to my collarbone. Rolling me over on my back, he laid claim to my throat with savage bites. Then long fingers tore at my drawers, and I felt the chill of the early spring night upon my privates, which swelled into Holmes’ grip like a cat into a caress.

I bit Holmes shoulder as I freed him of his last garment, my fingers closing upon his already hardened member. Our mouths found each other again, and our tongues wrestled fiercely as we fondled and explored each other with questing fingers. Soon our kiss broke again, and Holmes savaged my neck with fervent love-bites, trailing down my chest to my abdomen. I understood his intent immediately, and steered his hips toward my shoulders so that I might do the same for him.

I nuzzled his ball-sac, inhaling deeply and savouring the heady aroma of his musk as he straddled my face. I gasped aloud as I felt my own urgent flesh suddenly surrounded by warm lips, a nimble tongue wrapping around my length with greedy abandon. I abandoned all attempts to take my time, instead gulping his entire shaft in one swift motion, sucking him for dear life as he feasted upon me, opening my whole throat for him as his throat received me. Just as I felt my climax nearing, however, he pulled away, squatting just at my shoulder and smiling down at me.

He reached down and touched my cheek, then produced a small bottle from I know not where, showing it to me with a wordless question.

I nodded, licking my lips. I laid back and spread my legs in tacit invitation.

Holmes poured a measure of the oil upon his hand, situating himself between my hips. Agonizingly slowly, he greased first my twitching hole and then my throbbing manhood, applying equal attention to each in turn. I was mildly surprised when he then began preparing himself in a similar fashion, oiling his own entrance as well as his hardness. Seeing my confusion, he paused and pressed a finger to my lips, then straddled me, leaning forward to bestow a chaste kiss upon my forehead.

Then he sat down, impaling himself slowly upon me. I groaned aloud as his hot flesh yielded to me, encasing me completely inside him. Then, just as slowly as he had taken me in, he rose again, clamping his muscles shut so that the sphincter pulled along my length as he released it from his hole. I thrust upwards again, but he rose completely off me, and instead re-positioned himself with one leg in between mine, raising my hips with a bunch of discarded clothing.

In a flash, the tip of his desire was at my puckered entrance, and I gladly surrendered to him, willing my muscles relaxed for him as he invaded with the speed of a glacier, inching himself inside me, making me ache for his penetration. In vain I brought my hips up to greet his entry, only to find his steely grasp pressing down upon my body so that he alone might time this motion. I resigned myself to letting him find the tempo, and so he came into my yearning flesh at such a drawn-out pace that I nearly fainted for desire. He filled me inch by inch, advancing with the force of a tidal wave until he had buried himself to the hilt, his hugeness so present inside me that I felt my breath expelled with the pulsing of the veins upon his shaft.

He leaned forward, kissing my lips softly as his withdrawal began its snail’s pace to the accompaniment of my steady groans. I squeezed his shaft with my inner muscles as he pulled out, bracing myself for another thrust.

Instead, he once more settled himself onto my hardness, this time allowing me to slide inside him slightly faster. I was pleasantly surprised when he repeated his motion, riding up and down the pole of my desire some three or four times before shifting to impale me once more with his own manhood. He gave my shuddering flesh several good long thrusts from tip to hilt before withdrawing completely for yet another ride upon my now-weeping erection.

Neither of us could have lasted much longer, and it only took a few more cycles of these exertions before we could stand it no longer; the next time Holmes thrust into me, I gripped onto his buttocks and held him inside me, milking his climax from him with the contortions of my inner passage as I shuddered in the little death.

For a long time we lay there, trembling and panting in each others’ arms, our mouths pressed firmly together, our shoulders heaving as we gradually recovered from the shock. I was only dimly aware of Holmes sliding from me and him wrapping us both in his cloak as we snuggled upon the mossy forest floor.

But even as we lay thus in languid bliss, my traitor mind could not resist but call up a thousand insecurities to haunt me. I dreaded the inevitable end of this state of perfection, knowing that such happiness could not last; Holmes could not possibly –

“Hshhhh,” Holmes said, pressing his lips to my forehead. “You are so easy to read, my dear Doctor. Do you not know that I feared you would run away, take the next train to Aberdeen and send for your things? For months, I have been thinking how I might approach you –”

“You did not deduce how I felt about you?”

“Once again, Watson, you underestimate your own skill. In any case, I was not sure what of my observations had been clouded by my own feelings. I was only sure about six months ago –”

I sat up, frowning down sharply at him. “You’ve known how I’ve felt about you since before Christmas, and you –”

“My dear Watson, what do you take me for? Even when I was sure of your affections, I could not predict how it might affect our friendship, or even my career. I had to see how I could function while in love with you. I decided that six months –”

I had heard enough. I rolled atop Holmes, silencing him with a firm kiss, this one tender and warm, caressing his lips with my tongue in long, silken strokes. For the first time, I allowed myself to savour the taste of my lover, allowing him to ease me back into his embrace.

He ran a finger along the grim tracery of my battle scar, his slate-grey eyes darkening slightly. “You do know that I’d do anything to protect you,” he said in a distant voice. “It’s the one factor for which I cannot predict my behaviour. It’s somewhat disturbing, but, considering that the benefits far outweigh the risks –”

I lay a single finger across his lips, stopping his words once more. “Not now, Sherlock,” I murmured, and bent to kiss him again. There were no more words that night, but only the start of a moonlit evening of bliss in the verdant springtime woods.
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Beltane