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The Clueless Watson	By : JacquesL Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 6679 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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The Clueless Watson – Part Five, or: Tales from the East – A Hassan Sequel
“What’s that?” I inquired when I saw a plateful of strange round brownish things lying on the pewter table between us. They looked remarkably like camel dung, and I wondered whether I was supposed to eat them or throw them into the fire. As an answer, Hassan took one of the offensive objects and thrust it into my mouth, despite my fervent protest, while he made encouraging movements with the other hand, and grinned like a boy. I bit down into the sticky thing, and my teeth met a subtle substance, mellow and unbelievably sweet. “Kul, kul!” said my newly won friend. I knew that word, it meant that I should go on eating. “But what is it?” I asked again, chewing quite happily meanwhile. “Teyne,” he said. “Tamrun. Dates.”
We were lying on a pile of coarse pillows in one corner of the tent, quite close to each other, resting on old camel saddles covered with colourful rugs. The other half of the tent was occupied by an impressive falcon sitting on a pedestal. It was a ‘she’, as I had learned already, and not only a precious gem, but also a jolly good hunter, which provided both high esteem and a significant amount of money, won at informal hunting competitions. The tent itself was comparably small, yet provided shelter from sun, wind and presently from sight, too. And while it was half open during the better part of the day, its string locks were now tightly closed. In contrast to my previous impressions, the interior was strikingly unimpressive, and its sparse furniture practical, and even more important, transportable. The predominant colours were dark brown and off-white, and a little bit of red, and the entire cloth was made of goat’s hair, which I had been told by my gentle host.
He soon reached for another date and made a move to go on feeding me, but I caught his hand in mine and snatched the date from his fingers, just because there are some things that an English Gentleman should regard as inappropriate, even during times of war. When our hands touched, Hassan looked at me in mild astonishment, then he smiled and gave me what I could only interpret as an utterly shameless complete survey. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. I recall that I must have started to tremble, while my glance swept from our hands to Hassan’s face and back. Then, he held onto my wrist with the other hand and bent forward, and to my shock he took the date out of my fingers with his mouth, taking his time, his lips brushing my fingertips lasciviously.
I did not know what to think. My heart was racing, but even though I was completely aware of the danger I put myself in, in fact, the danger we both were facing in case we were overheard, I was hesitant to do what I should have done: to leave his tent immediately and return to my duties, to swear never to see him again, and to take a cold bath. Instead, I remained where I was, staring at him like the proverbial rabbit, while he was still holding my hand – and licking my fingers. And only then did I feel that I was aroused, utterly and mercilessly aroused, and I could not help but express this pitiable state of mine by repetitious and barely suppressed moans.
The world seemed to be spinning around us, and in spite of my horror, I felt strangely relieved and free, as if I was flying. The whole situation was not real, it was some kind of surrealistic dream we shared, and the rushing sound in my ears was efficiently drowning the voice of reason to which I might otherwise have listened. All that counted right now was Hassan’s face, his alien dark eyes, sparkling with equally strange lust, and his smiling lips, still moist from the date and from the unusual contact they had just made with my fingers. He licked them with his tongue, and I knew that he could still taste the saltiness of my own hand, and by the way he looked at me, this was a most rewarding experience.
Then he pulled my arm towards him, guiding my hand to his chest. I followed the movement like a somnambulist, leaning over the plate until I touched the dark and warm skin with my fingers. All second thoughts hauled aside, I started inspecting the unknown territory, and it was as if I had never touched a man before. Of course, I had palpated many a man’s chest, due to my profession, but never in that fashion, and never before had I spent even a thought on how enticing this could be; until now, when I suddenly felt a physical reaction to my hesitant exploration, not only within the ribcage beneath my fingers, but also within my own. It was like an electric circuit that had suddenly been closed, making our hearts leap in unison.
It is difficult to recall what exactly happened after that fateful moment. I remember that the pewter plate rolled off, spilling most of the dates on the carpet, and maybe it was shoved out of the way. I remember our mouths meeting, almost forcefully, as we drank from each other the saps of life, with all their natural and date-induced sweetness, as if we were dying of thirst, casting all worries aside, all pretence, all reservations. While my hand was still groping the smooth skin of my friend’s torso, feeling the strong muscles underneath, he rolled off his pillows and on top of me, and I instantly felt that his arousal matched mine. That, however, was also what brought me back to my senses, at least to some degree.
“Please,” I whispered, my mouth still close to his, while I reluctantly tried to push him off me. “We cannot go any further. Please.”
Hassan immediately supported himself in order to get his weight off me, and he exhaled in what I first mistook as disapproval. But then I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he understood. He leaned his forehead against mine for a couple of minutes, while our breaths slowly settled back to normal. Then, and only then, did he kiss me again, on the mouth, but without any attempt to penetrate my lips, and pulling me with him, he rolled onto his back. I fell asleep with my head resting on his shoulder, and during that night, all my sorrows respectfully stayed at a safe distance.
*
“Dates,” Holmes said. “These are called dates, and Mycroft mentioned that they are very nutritious.” I caught myself staring at the plate full of the sticky little brown marbles, and only slowly heard my friend’s voice drift to my ears. And still, I was wrapped in a thick layer of sweet memories that made pulling away so very difficult, so that I resolved to sluggishly turn my head towards Holmes without uttering an answer. He gave a dry chuckle and stuffed his pipe until the room once more filled with thick bluish wafts of smoke, while I remained silent. “What on earth do you hope to find in these?” my good friend added. “Enlightenment?” He chuckled again and slapped me on the back, rather softly, I must say, as if he feared to caress me and yet wanted to make a point.
We had spent the better part of the past night in unison, and yet we had not done what we originally intended to do. In spite of my yearning, I had found myself caught in a maelstrom of memories, followed by an unusual apprehensiveness, and apart from kissing Holmes, I had behaved like an utter fool. Now it was already around noon, and Holmes had been kind enough not to talk about the circumstances, even though I was convinced that he must be disappointed. I found myself in a state of deep regret, verging on despair, because of what had not happened, but it could not be helped: I had failed him.
Forcing myself to look at my dear friend, I saw that his eyes were still resting on me, and his investigating, yet kind gaze induced more remorse in my soul than words could have done. I would have liked to explain the matter to him, however I found myself unable to do so, as I could not find an explanation myself for my sudden and utterly unexpected hesitancy. And thus, I shrouded myself in silence, searching for an explanation and finding naught. It was Holmes who finally spoke.
“My dear Watson,” he exclaimed, his voice not entirely without amusement. “You are a sorry sight indeed, yet the matter is remarkably simple.” Instead of waiting for an answer, he got up from his chair and stuffed his pipe anew, then strode to my chair, and propping his foot on the frame, he made a few drags, his fine lips working around the mouthpiece, while he obviously did not expect me to contradict him. I tried to answer his steady gaze unblinkingly, but I did not succeed in this completely, and thus, looking up at my friend in expectation of his faultless inspection, I patiently awaited his sermon.
“We have come to a point where both of us realize that there has to be made a slight change of our relation,” he said. “Even you cannot deny that this is the outcome of our mutual observation, as well as last night’s… exchange.” The corners of his mouth twitched, yet he made no attempt to smile. “After what I suspect that you have gone through, it does not take me by surprise to see you this hesitant. In fact, it is just what I expected.” He drew his foot away and strode to the window, and I knew that it was now my turn to speak. However, I waited for another moment or two before I found the courage to do so.
“I do not know what to say, Holmes,” I said, my mind racing with images of the past night as well as many a past day from the precedent years. “It is not that I do not want you. It is just that I suddenly felt I cannot…”
“… touch me?” he finished my sentence. “But why on earth should you not do so, after it was I who invited you. Why should it be so difficult to do so, in fact, after we shared this extraordinary kiss?”
I could not answer him, as I myself did not know an answer to this. If truth be told, there was nothing on earth I wanted more than touching Holmes, and I had done so in my dreams for years, and yet, here I was, hesitant as a choir boy, churning from within, and yet refraining from even holding his hand. What was it that made him so… different? I had never felt any of this facing Hassan. In fact, it had all been so very easy when I met him, and now that I had finally found a way to approach the one I loved most in the very same manner, I shied away. This was utterly strange, and I hated myself for behaving like this, but the more I thought about it, the more did I feel my mind swirl, and my hands shake, and I could not even make myself stand up and go to him. “I don’t know, Holmes,” I ejaculated. “Believe me, my dear friend, that I do love you. But… I just don’t know.”
To this, he did not reply, but went on puffing his pipe with his face turned towards the window. He heard him clear his throat once or twice, and at some point of time, I even suspected him blowing his nose discreetly, but of this I could not be entirely sure. Whatever it was that he was contemplating, I could merely sit and wait for his next move. I took up the newspapers after a while, but the letters were swimming in front of my eyes, and so I remained staring into nothingness, until the memories swept up once more.
*
We spent many a night together in his tent, Hassan and I, until we were separated by the cruel hands of war, and never even once did we dare get closer than in that fateful first night. We did explore each other’s body with our hands, but we had of course to remain fully clothed, because the danger of being exposed was too great. And the kisses we shared were equally shy, albeit sweeter than anything I had experienced before. But apart from that, we talked, our voices low and hushed, lest we were overheard, and we shared about everything we had ever felt and thought, as if we were more than brothers, like twins, like nothing I had ever known.
Once, Hassan confirmed that he felt comparably strange about this circumstance, as he had grown up to be a warrior, and never trusted anyone in his life the way he trusted me, nor had he ever had a chance to relish such kind of intimacy as we shared. The nomad tribes were not famous for their romantic feelings, and their marks of favour, even among married couples, culminated in an obvious tendency to replicate on a regular base, but he assured me that even a kiss was quite a rarity among his people. And yet, we shared all that, and we both missed it dearly when we were torn apart.
Upon being wounded and consequently transported to India, I had believed that I would never see my Arabian friend again, and when I finally came back to London, I must admit that there were times during which I had almost forgotten about his existence. Only when I allowed myself to wallow in reminiscences did I remember his face - until one night when there was a knock at my door, and I the receptionist told me there was a gentleman to see me in the foyer. I grudgingly went downstairs and found myself face to face with Hassan.
Presently, I remember clearly what I felt and did when I saw him standing in that foyer, clad in Western clothes, quite a gentleman, smiling at me out of a somewhat emaciated face, yet clearly recognizable as the one friend I had shared with all the things I had never told anyone else. I myself was poorly dressed in an oversized suit, and I had hastily put on my coat, for I had not expected a late guest and feared for the worst. After the initial shock (for that it doubtlessly was, to see him here after all these years), I must admit that my mind was filled with a profound feeling of happiness that I had missed dearly for too long a time, and I immediately accompanied my friend to his dwelling. We took a cab to his humble abode, somewhere near the docks, where he almost pulled me inside, and we hurried to his bedroom hand in hand, without uttering so much as a word.
Up in his little room, he cast aside his hat and jacket, and without further ado we were locked in an embrace that could have withstood an earthquake. And then something strange, yet quite explicable happened: all our precautions cast aside, we found ourselves engaged in a kiss that lasted over the locking of his door and the shedding of our clothes, until we were lying down on his little bedstead, already heavily aroused by both the unexpected reencounter and the anticipation that had built up during the drive. There was no further hesitation on both sides, as if we knew that we had done enough to breach every law already, and there was no need to hold back now.
This time, I limited my explorations of his body not to my hands only, but I wanted to feel and taste him with my lips and tongue, too, and as I had not seen my dear friend for such a long time, I inspected and hailed every inch of his body with adequate reverence, until he lay squirming under my comparably light weight, and laughing softly, regarding the boldness of my administrations. Tables turned, and he did quite the same with me, but he did not content himself with caressing my skin with his lips. Soon, his attention was focused on the one part of me that was eagerly expecting further interest, and his soft lips applied the respective care with such an ardour that I could hardly keep myself from crying out. And still, none of us had uttered a single word, after all that time. It was as if we were still in that tent, which demanded us to remain silent.
I cannot tell why, but it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world for me to finally turn and offer myself to him, as I had always imagined that this would be the only way for Hassan and me to finally unite, and while I was in India, I had often dreamt of such a preposterous position. A lubricant of some kind was found and applied; I honestly cannot recall what it was, and I suspect it was something he had bought beforehand, as I now recall an intricate little box that had been standing on the nightstand. There was neither need nor time for any other preparation, and apart from an expected amount of pain, I finally shared with Hassan the most illegal, yet most satisfying way of unification that possibly exists on earth.
Neither of us wanted to sleep that night, and when we were both spent and tired, we still remained wide awake, for fear that the night might end too soon, and we would never have the pleasure to do this again. Finally, in the early morning hours, I must have fallen asleep nonetheless, because I awoke to the touch of a damp cloth between my thighs. When I opened my eyes, I saw Hassan sitting by my side, cleaning my legs and private parts with utmost care, and his dark slender body, still glistening with the moisture of the nightly pleasures, was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Growing aware of the imminent pleasure his presence gave to me, he finished his administrations quite hastily, and we resumed our nightly explorations. We talked much later, and only after weeks did he confide in me to have sold all he had in order to come to me.
From then on, I ventured to meet Hassan as often as I could, risking my reputation, and I only stopped involving in those wild hours with him for a certain time after I had moved in with Sherlock Holmes. The magic of our friendship, however, survived even this grave change in my life, as Hassan, who was certainly as jealous as any a man can be, agreed to my wish to remain a platonic lover only, if such a thing is possible. I believe he loved me to such a degree that he would not risk losing me, should he not agree to my wishes. And thus, we remained secret friends, while I felt that there was someone else in my life, who soon developed into the one person upon whom I bestowed my entire love. How Hassan was able to live with this, I cannot say. It is a sign of his greatness that he endured all of it, and that he even remained my faithful friend after I told him that I had desperately fallen in love with Holmes.
However, the more time I spent with Holmes, the more desperate did I become to share these worldly pleasures with a man again, and the mere idea of sharing them with Holmes (even though the concept was more than tempting) was clearly out of the question. And thus, finally I went to bed with Hassan again, always fearing to be caught by my indefatigable detective, and I believe I only escaped his scrutiny with the cunning help of my Arabian friend, the expertise of whom in such matters I knew (even if he never told me about their source). It thus did not really take me by surprise to learn that he had managed to follow Holmes without his knowledge, and that the two of them had finally come to talk.
I desperately needed to settle this, but I still had no clue how to undertake such stirring a journey. It was Holmes who had made the first steps, and it was my duty as his faithful friend to make the next ones. But how I should do this, it simply escaped me. Once more, I was on the verge of shying away, as the mere thought of touching Holmes, and especially his private parts, was an enticing (and arousing) idea as such, but it also came close to a sacrilege. But how on earth could I tell him this without making an utter fool of myself?
To be continued…
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The Clueless Watson