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The Letter	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 6633 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
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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:

And now I have lost you, my love. I leave you to your beautiful wife and your practice. Mary is a fine woman who shall give you the normality, the stability that you deserve. Finally, you shall have the family you have always wanted, and I shall no longer be there to tempt you away from hearth and home and into danger. As I imagine your life without me, I can see that I have been selfish to keep you away from the woman you love. I can offer you love, but I fear that my love would only bring you pain and disgust, and it is for this reason that I have left you, never to return.
My dearest friend, I sit here in the sunlight and find it cannot warm me, for I am indeed dead without you by my side. Your life without me shall be idyllic and peaceful, but my life without you is an empty lie. Without me, you are still a skilled physician and loving husband, a deserving citizen who shall go far in his chosen profession. Conversely, Sherlock Holmes is nothing without his Watson. It is a bitter irony, that. In the past few weeks, I have often thought of making the deception real, dying by my own hand, but I find that, coward that I am, I cannot bring my plans to fruition. Twice I have gone so far as to place my revolver against my skull, but nothing can induce me to pull the trigger. [Here I paused momentarily to give my dear love a kiss and reassure him of my affection before reading on:]This part of Italy is home to many fine cliffs where one could leap to oblivion, and yet I find after my adventure at the Reichenbach Falls, I have no desire to end my life in that manner. I pray nightly that Moriarty’s henchmen will track me down and finish the job for me, but so far I have managed to evade that form of death, as well.
I thought that perhaps some distance from you might heal me, might give me some peace from my obsession, but now that you are no longer with me, I find the pain of your absence is almost too much to bear. I long to hear your voice, to see your warm, open smile, to gaze into your beautiful blue eyes – my darling, do you even know how gorgeous your eyes are? Your eyes would be remarkable enough, my sweet Watson, if only for their colour; they are the exact shade of the North Sea in summer, or the pure azure that crowns the zenith of a cloudless sky. And yet it is not the memory of their singular colour that haunts my dreams even as I run further away from you. Rather it is the light that shines from within those eyes, the gleam of your good humour, your gentle spirit and your compassion, your solid common-sense, and most of all, your intelligence.
Yes, dear Watson, your intelligence, that one trait of yours which you continually underestimated in your tales. Any fool who reads your records of my work should be able to see your wit and acumen simply in the style of writing; it is no easy task to string a cohesive narrative together out of the hectic jumble of events to which I regularly subjected you, and yet you wove your stories like a true master (I cannot forgive myself for never telling you this).
How cruel I was to you, dearest, in my criticisms of your writing! You never knew that behind my vituperative comments, I was hiding my joy that you would find my world so fascinating. Did you never guess that, later in my career, I found myself choosing my cases to find the ones that would most please you and draw you nearer to me? And yet, in my callous and unfair rants, I never told you the one real criticism I hold of your work: you continually belittled yourself in your comparisons to me, putting me upon a pedestal while placing yourself firmly at my feet. I have craved your love, but I never desired your worship. I am no god; I am merely a foolish, lost soul who made the grave error of falling in love with his best friend. In drawing you into my heart, I have lost you by my side. Would that I could have you in both ways, as friend and as lover, as companion and paramour, but I know that you, proper gentleman that you are, would be deeply shocked and revolted if I were to tell you what base sexual desires gnaw at my heart when the nights grow lonely and my thoughts fly to you.
Yesterday I met a sailor, recently returned from the far east, who told me of the religion there and the monks’ ability to repress all desires. Of course, he spoke of women and his desire for them, but I could not help but think that perhaps the answer to my problem might lie in Tibet. Perhaps there, I can at least quell my desire enough that I might be able to return to you as a friend, although I shall never stop loving you.
I have gotten passage as a simple deckhand on a freighter to Calcutta; from there I hope to find my way to Lhassa. If nothing else, the voyage should be educational, though I fear no amount of intellectual stimulation can ease the pain in my heart.
The light is growing dim here, and the proprietor is shooting me meaningful glances; I have occupied one of his tables for three hours and consumed only coffee and tobacco, neither of them particularly expensive. I remember how you always chided me to eat more; tonight I shall eat well and pretend I am doing it to please you; in reality, I shall be pleasing my host, as I have resolved to repay his patience by ordering something dreadfully expensive, accompanied by a bottle of his best champagne. After all, this shall be my last night in Europe, and each glass I drink shall be a toast to your health and happiness.
My darling love, how I fervently hope that you are happy! I know that you shall feel some pain befitting the loss of your eccentric friend and former fellow-lodger, but your grief will pass, and you shall have your lovely wife and your work to console you. I have only my memories of you and the vain hope that someday I may be able to return to you. Dear Watson, my heart, my spirit, and my love are irretrievably yours, and I shall ever remain yours,
William Sherlock Holmes

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.”
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The Letter