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The Clueless Watson	By : JacquesL Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 6678 -:- 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 Six (Second Hassan Sequel)
Watson
It was the next evening, or maybe some nights later, the accurate date of which I cannot recall, but as it is of no importance for the story, I may content myself with the fact that our newly won understanding was still young, and the memories of our first kiss fresh and lovely. And yet, nothing else had followed that kiss, and we had spent the past hours (or days, as the case may be) in a manner of utmost chastity, me because I did not dare venture any further, and Holmes probably because he waited for me to make the next move. We were sitting in front of the fireplace, as was our habit whenever the two of us had a free evening, and I had been trying to read the newspapers for quite some time, however my mind went astray time and again: I longed to share more with Holmes, much more than a kiss, and at the same time I recoiled in horror from what I would ask of him, and what the consequences might do to his mind and soul.
The voice of my dear friend and partner called me from my musings. “You've been staring at the same paragraph for the past six and a half minutes, Watson,” Holmes stated, bestowing me with an inquisitive glance that certainly was Hassan’s equal in every way.
I caught myself sighing, and folding the offending newspaper that had been resting in my hands so uselessly for the past minutes, I looked at him with what I regarded as both apology and ashamedness. “I am sorry, Holmes,” I said, feeling my face grow hot.
“No need to apologize, my dear fellow,” Holmes promptly retorted.
“But I do need to apologize,” insisted I and sighed again, expecting the familiar exploration of my mind and soul. He would soon find out all about my reservations, and I dreaded whether he would approve of them. Well, it could not be helped, as his sharp intellect would discover everything, no matter how much I squirmed, and presently Holmes seemed to be in such high spirits that I might just be lucky enough to escape his chidings.
“Not that I am aware,” he said amiably and started to stuff his pipe.
I looked at him, aware that by now I was blushing furiously. “You know what I mean,” I said feebly, even though I did not really have a clue, and I tried to underline my helpless words by equally helpless gesturing.
“If you're feeling inadequate,” Holmes said cheerfully, “Let me assure you that I consider this a temporary setback at worst.”
I almost jumped at those words, for it was as if he had once more seen into the very core of my mind, and yet I had to gainsay. “Inadequate! But... by no means!” I thusly exclaimed, knowing it was a white lie, and hating myself for that.
“Well what then?” Holmes said calmly, lighting his pipe and sucking at it contemplatively. It was, I must admit, an utterly enticing sight to watch his thin yet inviting lips enclose the pipe stem that enthusiastically. When I detected myself staring, I immediately tore myself away from the image, forcing my head to turn to the side.
“It is just that, I somehow... it's so... vulgar,” I spat out, giving in to what had been bothering my for the past hours. “And you are so... precious.”
At this, Holmes looked at me with confusion and concern. “I'm sorry?” he said, his tone of voice verging on a chuckle. “I understood you said something about me being precious. You're not being serious, are you?”
This was just too much for me to bear: to feel like betraying the one I loved by the love itself was one thing, but to be scorned by the same was quite another. On an impulse, I flung away the newspaper and kneeled in front of him, if only to show him my sincerity.
Holmes immediately jumped up, grabbed me by my forearms and pulled me to my feet, as if I was no more than a rag doll. “None of that, dear chap,” he said sternly. “I beg you.”
“But – It's true,” I insisted, feeling my eyes grow hot. “I love you too much. I cannot expose you to this vulgarity.”
In contrast to his former sardonic demeanour, Holmes remained earnest now. “I suppose it wouldn't help if I told you that I've been exposed to a lot worse than that, and not by my choice,” He said. “But maybe I can induce you to reconsider by asking you to do it.” He squared his shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Watson, be vulgar with me.”
I considered my options. If I turned him down, he would probably take it very personally, and apart from never hearing the end of it, I would this time really insult him. And was it not what I had wanted? If not, why would I tell him about my misgivings in the first place? I had but one option: to kiss him, and thus I obeyed his words by presenting Holmes an adequate demonstration of my expertise on osculation.
At last, Holmes surfaced for air, breathing deeply while leaning against my shoulder. “That's better. Now, what else might I say? Watson, give rein to your base instincts and ravish me.”
“Wait,” I said, feeling a boyish grin spread over my face – and in immediate and rather urgent heat along my groin. “I need to lock the door first.”
“Capital idea,” Holmes stated.
Walking with quite some difficulty, I locked the door, then drew the blinds and curtains, and only then did I allow myself to walk back to my love, discarding of my jacket on the way, and I must admit that I consequently was so impatient that I sent buttons flying: my own as well as Holmes'.
“I always knew there were undiscovered depths about you,” I heard Holmes say, but his comments were soon drowned out by my labial administrations. For this, we did not take our time to get to the bedroom, but we used the great opportunity of a bearskin rug (a present of one of Holmes’ wealthier clients), which was lying invitingly in front of the fireplace. Following his command, yet still hesitant about doing something that could soil him, I worshipped every inch of Holmes’ body with my lips, heating both his and my desire, until I helped him over the edge, leaving the two of us spent and utterly content.

The fire was crackling softly on the grate, and I was lying on the cosy fur, with my thoroughly worshipped and presently rather blissed-out new lover resting his head on my chest, when I heard Holmes mutter: “Not too vulgar for you, I perceive.”
I closed my arms around him and kissed his brow. “I love you too.”
*****

Later that same night, I was lying restlessly in Holmes' bed, to which we had finally managed to retreat after the fire had burned down, leaving the bearskin cosy, but cold. I assumed my good friend sleeping soundly, while I could find no rest, as another image was presently overlying the recent one: that of my dear friend Hassan, and what we had been sharing. The thought of him whiling away the time while waiting for my visit was indeed a saddening one, even though I had a pretty good reason to desert him. Moreover, I would have loved to pay him another visit, yet I could not dare to expose myself to his keen eye, for he would doubtlessly detect my new disposition at a glance: it would not be unexpected, of course, yet it would cause me considerable discomfort. And yet, a part of me still longed to see him. I only realized that I cursed when the word had already slipped my lips.
There was a soft movement in my arms, and without opening his eyes Holmes said: “I suggest you talk to him.”
With a start, I exclaimed: “How do you –“ But then I stopped again, realizing my misconception. “It is obvious, isn't it?” I thus added.
“Indeed,” Holmes said, his voice sounding sleepy, with an almost feline purr I had rarely heard before.
“What do I do?” I said with no little desperation. “He is my friend. I love him. Not as I love you,” I hastened to add, “but…” I sighed once more. “I owe him.”
“Talk to him,” Holmes said and yawned. “And remember.” Now he opened his eyes and looked at me, and his stare was as intense as if he had not just been resting on my bosom. Once more, he reminded me of a cat. “I do not share.” His voice was full of determination, but even if it had not been, I would have known that he never allocated any of his acquisitions, presently in the shape of me, to anyone else.
“I know,” I thus said. “And I already talked to him. The point is, he might act rashly. And this, I do not want.”
“Short of keeping an eye on him all day long, there's not much you can do about that if this is the case. He's a grown man,” Holmes said, closing his eyes again and arranging himself with the blanket.
“I must tell you something, Holmes,” I began, trying to ignore his insinuation that we had discussed the matter sufficiently. “Hassan sold his -”
“Falcon,” Holmes interrupted me, finishing my sentence, but without opening his eyes again. “I know. I am sorry. But I must admit I am feeling singularly disinclined to help him.”
Now it was me who fidgeted with the blanket, and I stared at the ceiling in order to express my indignation. “Well, in fact, I still am his friend,” I said. “And he came to London because of me. And now, he is here. And of course I will help him.”
I felt Holmes’ hand pat mine. “Oh, I am sorry, my dear fellow,” he said. “I know you will. I should never expect anything else from you.” There was a pause, filled only with our calm breathing and the first morning sounds carrying up from the street. Then, when I was almost dozing off once more, Holmes said, “You could introduce him to Lestrade.”
I must admit that the mere thought of it made me stare and then laugh hysterically. But at least my dear friend had not lost his sense of humour, and thus I put my arm around his shoulder, pressing his lean body against mine with utter relief. “Very funny, my dear chap,” I said betwixt waves of laughter. “But actually not such a bad idea. Only... not Lestrade. Because he's with Gregson.”
Holmes, who was resting his head tightly against my chest, snorted. “Gregson would wish that.”
“Seriously, now,” I said, trying to compose myself again. “Do you really think we could play matchmaker for Hassan? He is a bright boy, you know that. He won't be fooled, and I don't want to hurt his pride.”
Holmes yawned into my shoulder. “Anybody can be fooled, Watson, given sufficient skill and motivation.”
“Ah, you're tough,” I said. “And whom would you propose?”
“I can think of half a dozen men right off the top of my head. I -”
“Half a dozen men, to stand in for ME?” I interrupted him huffily. “Well thank you very much, my dear friend.”
Holmes lifted his head and looked at me. “For me, there is only you. For Hassan, it's a different thing.” And even though I still felt a slight anger inside of me, because he had thought it so easy to replace me, I felt this sentiment being shoved aside by a new wave of warmth concerning this unexpected declaration of love, so rare from his lips.
“Is it, now?” I said, trying a little pout.
“Oh my dear chap, don't be hurt,” Holmes ejaculated. “You and I, we have history. Years of history. You and Hassan, that was, what, a few weeks? That can be replaced, I am sure of it.”
“But, it's been years!” I retorted meekly.
“Years?” Holmes repeated. “Really? Hm.” He closed his eyes again, frowning sulkily.
I kissed his temple and admitted grumpily: “But you're right, it's different.”
This time, Holmes did not lift his head, but remained hiding his nose in the fold of my armpit. Yet I could hear by the tone of his voice that he was utterly content with what he heard. “I thought so.”
Holding him close once more, I allowed myself to join him in this moment of mirth, while my thoughts struggled for a closing with regards to the topic we had just been discussing. “I am glad to see you happy once more,” I muttered, feeling new tendrils of sleepiness embrace me. “But we must find someone.” And then I fell asleep.

To be continued...
- 5
- 6
- 7
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The Clueless Watson