Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

What do you give the detective who has everything?	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 5424 -:- 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-What do you give the detective who has everything?
- 1
It has been observed that the smallest event may change the course of history, that a tiny pebble may sway the path of an avalanche, and that the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing upon one continent may affect a gargantuan storm upon another. That having been stated, it is also true that these mechanisms which so alter the course of human events are by and large undetected, or at least unobserved, even by the most attentive of us poor mortals who, in the face of insuperable odds, still cling to the notion that we have control of our destiny as we swirl along in the currents of history, as ignorant and as impotent as fallen leaves in the spring-flooded brook.

In my case, however, the detail which changed my life irrevocably was not only visible but known to me, although at the time I thought it a trifle. The course of events which forever altered the relations between me and Mr. Sherlock Holmes started in a deceptively simple manner; they began, in short, with a single sprig of mistletoe.

The mistletoe in question hung in the sitting-room doorway, put there by our good landlady Mrs. Hudson upon the eighteenth of December; by the twenty-first, she had managed to capture both her boarders underneath it, cajoling us each into a kiss upon her rosy cheeks, and causing no limit of sarcastic protestations from Holmes upon the matter. Her main goal of domestic goodwill and seasonal flirtation accomplished, Mrs. Hudson put the mistletoe out of her mind, and there it hung, unheeded and ignored, until the very morning of Christmas Day, when this seemingly inoffensive plant threw our lives into turmoil.

Holmes and I had been bustling in and out of the door all morning, for Mrs. Hudson had left to visit her relatives for the day, leaving us to fetch our own nourishment from the kitchen. It was just after ten o’clock when we found ourselves meeting at the sitting-room doorway, Holmes coming into the room with a bottle of wine, me about to dash upstairs to my room for my corkscrew, when we both looked up to see the greenery above us, then looked at each other and smiled.

“As soon as Mrs. Hudson comes back,” Holmes said with an impish grin, “I shall have her remove that infernal herb from the doorway. Someone could get in trouble.”

“Why; are you going to kiss me?” I asked with a laugh.

“Why; would you like me to?” he rejoined merrily, moving a little closer.

I have always had a weakness for dares – back in school, I was constantly in trouble for it – and I could no sooner have backed down than I could have moved the house with my little finger. Still smiling broadly, I lifted my face to his, placing a hand upon his shoulder. He, in turn, wrapped an arm around my waist, drawing me to him.

I do not think either of us fully realized the implications of our actions, not even when our lips met in a rather clumsy kiss. When the kiss deepened into a passionate embrace, however, we could no longer deny the pent-up desires within us, and our mouths crushed together furiously as we pressed into each other, chest to chest and hip to hip. I tried to stop myself, but found I could not muster sufficient aversion to our actions; all my training, all my conditioning, all my cultural expectations told me that we should not be acting in this manner, but Holmes’ mouth was too sweet a treasure to relinquish, and I found myself drinking deep of his kiss, melting into his embrace with growing ardour.

All too soon, Holmes stepped back, laying a single finger across my lips. “I had not expected that I would find such an action so pleasurable,” said he. “Indeed, I have underestimated an entire sphere of human interaction. Certainly I am not the all-knowing genius of your tales, if there are such wide gaps of ignorance to be reckoned with –”

I waved him into silence. “Just a moment, Holmes. Are you saying that you have never been kissed before?”

“Beyond the gentle kisses my grandmother bestowed upon my forehead when I was a small child, no. I see that I have much to –”

I had heard enough. I drew his mouth to mine once more, my tongue thrusting between his lips, demanding entry with such gentle persistence that he could not refuse me; he opened for me, groaning slightly as I explored his mouth with my ravishing tongue. We stood thus for a long time, kissing and caressing each other as if we were born to it, neither of us giving a damn for propriety or decency as our hands and lips slid over yearning flesh, trading tender love-bites in a passionate embrace which threatened to carry us away in a flood of mutual gratification.

I do not know where that kiss would have led, nor how far we would have taken this new pleasure, if the bell had not rung below, forcing us to leap apart guiltily.

“Lestrade,” Holmes muttered, turning away swiftly as he ran a hand over his hair to smooth it back.

I did my best to adjust my dishevelled clothes and hair as well, putting myself to rights just as the inspector burst in upon us.

“There’s nothing sacred,” the detective cried miserably, throwing himself into the armchair nearest the fire. “A double murder in Paddington, upon Christmas Morn! I don’t know what the world is coming to, gentlemen, and that’s a fact.”

I barely concentrated upon the conversation which followed; I dutifully sketched the beginnings of a case outline, the words travelling directly from my ears through my hand and onto the paper without ever properly registering in my brain. However, as it happened, the case notes were superfluous, as Holmes was able to remember a relevant case in our files that held a possible answer to Lestrade’s puzzle, and the professional was sent upon his way in little under half an hour. We both remained still as statues while the inspector’s footsteps faded down the stairs, neither of us moving a muscle until well after the downstairs door had open and shut. We sat thus for a long time, staring at the fire in leaden silence.

Sweet Lord above, what had I done? I wondered what Holmes was thinking, but knew better than to ask. I found myself only mildly surprised by my own lack of disgust upon the matter; I have always been somewhat bohemian in nature, and had never agreed with most of my profession when they condemned as “morbid” what I merely considered a matter of preference.

But carnal relations with a man was one thing; carnal relations with Sherlock Holmes was another thing altogether. How would sexual congress alter our friendship? What emotions might such an entanglement bring, and how would they affect Holmes’ delicately balanced intellect? And what of the risk of discovery and ruin?

And yet – I stole a glance at my companion, who still gazed resolutely at the fire, his profile gleaming in the flickering orange light. I could still taste him upon my lips, and I knew I wanted more. Even the thought of what we might have been doing now had we not been interrupted was enough to send shivers of desire right to my groin, where I felt a definite stirring. I looked away quickly, the blood rushing as eagerly to my cheeks as it flowed elsewhere.

I felt positively dizzy, my head spinning with doubt and lust and confusion. I knew that if he wanted me, I could not refuse him.

I just wished I knew his feelings upon the matter. Or mine, for that matter.

As if in answer to my thoughts, Holmes sprung from his chair in a graceful, catlike motion, a slight smile playing at his lips. My heart sprung to my throat as he approached me, but he crossed instead to the side-table and plucked the Stradivarius from its perch, tucking it under his chin without a word. I frowned in confusion, watching him draw the bow across the strings, touching them lightly at their proper resonance points to create harmonics, listening carefully to the heterodyne beats between the unisons of adjacent strings and adjusting them painstakingly, each one to its neighbour. Once he had tuned the instrument to his satisfaction, he essayed a few low scales by way of warming up his fingers, before starting in upon a melody of his own composition. I knew this one well; it was the theme he would often play while pondering a case in its early stages, just as he was reflecting upon the various threads drawn in for his consideration. Slow and ponderous, with a floating, lilting rhythm, the melody meandered along, its sonorous and pensive tones outlining an exotic scale that reminded me of the music I had heard in the East. With the flourish of a few rich, low-pitched double-stops, he shifted from this tune to an etude by Boccerini, another piece he often used to play when considering a problem whose solution was still obscured.

I nodded in satisfaction. Holmes was thinking out the matter, and would presumably let me know when he came up with a solution. As usual, I would have to wait to hear his deductions. Well, I had learned to wait, had I not?

With a sigh, I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the music, which drifted from the Italian etude to an old Scottish air, followed by the Massenet “Meditation Thais,” which is one of my particular favourites, a slow, elegant melody that drifts ethereally from one end to the other of the instrument’s range.

I believe I must have drifted off, for the next thing I remember, it was quite dark outside, and I sat alone in the sitting-room, still in my chair, but now with the quilt from my bed covering me. The sound of footsteps below and the smell of roast game hen from downstairs told me that Holmes was in the kitchen, no doubt warming up the dishes Mrs. Hudson had left for our supper. I had barely risen to my feet when Holmes returned with a tray full of covered plates. My heart went to my throat as our eyes met, and for a moment, we stared at each other, a palpable feeling of tension charging the air between us. Holmes was the first to break away from our locked gaze, turning sharply to the table to arrange the meal.

“Ah, Watson! You’re up!” said he in something approaching his usual jovial tone. “I hope you don’t mind my starting supper. I promise I wouldn’t have eaten it all without waking you,” he added jestingly, and something in our joined laughter seemed to ease the atmosphere, allowing us to talk of trifles over the excellent supper before us.

We continued discussing nothing in particular for long afterwards, our conversation drifting idly much as it usually did. I think that I had almost forgotten about our earlier kiss by the time we decided that we must clear away the dishes or face Mrs. Hudson’s wrath upon the morrow, and was in the process of holding the sitting-room door open for Holmes as he carried the remains of our meal through, when once more we looked up and saw that plant hanging above our heads.

This time, we burst into laughter, neither of us having the least idea what there was to laugh about, and laughing all the harder for that. While the wave of merriment was still subsiding, Holmes leaned in and kissed me chastely upon the cheek.

“I think I can handle the dishes from here; why don’t you go to bed?” said he. “Goodnight, and happy Christmas, Watson.”

I kissed his cheek in return. “Happy Christmas, Holmes.” I then turned and went up the stairs to my own room, where I totally and completely failed to go to sleep.

It was rather late in the morning when I came down to breakfast the next day, and I found our sitting-room colonized by a dozen of the Irregulars, who had come round for their Boxing Day presentation from Holmes. The boys received a whole sovereign each along with a stern injunction from Holmes to keep themselves safe and healthy; my friend, although he would never admit it, cared deeply for these street Arabs, and often worried about their welfare. I smiled to see him surrounded by the sea of grubby faces, a general addressing a troop of ragtag soldiers. Once the Irregulars had left, Peterson (the commissionaire from the hotel down the street) rang us up, followed by a string of various colourful London folk: seamstresses and prostitutes, bootblacks and cutpurses, porters and layabouts all came to our flat that morning to accept their yearly gratuity from Holmes in recognition of their role in keeping him informed of underworld doings.

Sometime between the visits of a chandler’s apprentice and a curate, Holmes caught me at the sitting room door and kissed me full upon the lips, releasing me with a smile and a wink just as the bell rang once more. After a hasty lunch, we began to receive more respectable visitors; half of Scotland Yard must have called that afternoon to pay their respects, and yet Holmes caught me no less than three times beneath the mistletoe, each time claiming a kiss that could have garnered us two years in Reading had our guests known what we were about. Somehow, the danger of it all turned it into a merry game, and by the time the last visitor was shown out, we had stolen at least a dozen furtive embraces; I had even initiated the last few myself, growing bolder with each touch of his lips to mine.

Once we were alone, however, our ardour cooled somewhat, and we each retreated to our accustomed pursuits; Holmes to his chemicals and I to my writing, each of us so completely absorbed in our work that we hardly noticed Mrs. Hudson’s return, at least not until she came up to scold us for the state her kitchen had been left in after only two days’ absence. It was not until I rose to retire for the night that Holmes approached me once more, standing beneath the mistletoe with an almost sheepish grin upon his face. We exchanged one last kiss, this one tender and lingering, before I ascended the stairs to my room, wondering at this change in our relations and where it might lead.

The next week passed rather oddly indeed; life continued much as it had in Baker Street, and yet at least a half-dozen times during the course of each day, one or the other of us would stand beneath the mistletoe and wait for the other to come join him for a kiss, before we each went off to other activities. No words were exchanged upon the subject, and the kisses themselves varied from a chaste peck on the cheek to a passionate crushing of our mouths which left both of us breathless. And yet, these embraces led no further, and I wondered – but could not bring myself to ask – if Holmes knew of the pleasures lay beyond simple osculation. I had been shamelessly engaging in solitary stimulation every night and most mornings that week, each time imagining Holmes’ lips upon mine as I came to climax, even fantasizing about what carnal pleasures we might share. By New Years’ Eve, I resolved to press this new facet of our relationship further, perhaps even (my stomach fluttered at the thought) asking him to my bed, the better to show him how kisses were just the beginning.

When I descended for breakfast, however, I was surprised to discover that Mrs. Hudson had taken down the Christmas decorations, including the mistletoe that had so sweetly altered our lives. All day long we haunted our sitting-room, and more than once I considered merely approaching Holmes for a kiss, but I could not bring myself to do it. Holmes, for his part, seemed distant and morose, but this was nothing especial, and so I settled down to my writing-desk, wondering idly where a person might purchase mistletoe upon the thirty-first of December.

I went out to my club that evening, only returning shortly before midnight to find Holmes playing his violin as he stood upon the hearth-rug, and I took up my accustomed seat, listening as he played a selection of my favourite airs. I watched his lithe form with no little interest, thinking of how his mouth tasted upon mine, and I resolved that I would not rest this night without kissing him again.

Just as I had decided this, Holmes’ music was joined by the tolling of the bells outside as the clocks struck midnight, and a wonderful idea came to me. I stood up and approached him, smiling as he lowered the violin.

“Happy New Year, Watson,” said he in a soft voice, his eyes glimmering strangely in the firelight.

“And a Happy New Year to you, Holmes,” I answered. “You know, it is traditional to exchange –”

I got no further, as Holmes tossed aside the Stradivarius and drew me to him, his mouth meeting mine deliciously. We tumbled onto the settee, our lips and hands caressing and exploring each others’ flesh at a furious pace. Or hips rubbed together, and I felt the hardness of his arousal grinding into my own burgeoning rod. I bit and sucked ruthlessly at his alabaster neck, delighting in the moans of pleasure which resulted, and I redoubled my efforts upon his throat, sending him into a frenzy of lust as he writhed beneath me.

Such carnal enthusiasm from my friend soon made me bold, and I gently bit his ear, whispering the question I had dared not ask before, inquiring whether or not he knew what acts might follow this pleasurable overture. He pulled away slightly from our embrace, smiling up at me with a mischievous light shining in his grey eyes.

“I have been reading some rather instructive literature upon the subject, in fact,” he told me with impish glee, punctuating his words with kisses upon my neck and jaw. “I was not aware before of what men do with each other, but I assure you, Watson, now that I have found out, I am extremely willing. I want to try it all with you. I want to –” and here he whispered in my ear, describing a particular sexual act he wished to perpetrate upon my person in such graphic detail, it caused me to lose my nerve entirely, and I pulled away suddenly, leaping off of the settee and making a wild dash for the door.

Holmes called for me but once, and I did not stop, but barrelled up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When I reached my room, I slammed the door behind me, locking it before throwing myself down upon the bed, every muscle in my body trembling in agitation.

A gentle rapping at the door made my heart leap into my throat.

“Watson?” Holmes called, his voice muffled by the door.

“Go away,” I shouted. I knew that although he could easily pick the lock, he would not seek entrance against my wishes.

“Watson, are you all –”

“I said go away,” I repeated with a growl.

There was a long pause on the other side of the door. “Very well, then, Doctor,” Holmes said in an icy voice. “Stay there, and be damned.” He stomped heavily down the stairs, and then from the first landing down to the front door, which slammed noisily behind him.

I rolled over and stared morosely at the ceiling, my mind awhirl with confusion. I could not believe what I had done. I had not been an unwilling participant in our embrace, nor did I understand what had made me draw away. I had only last night pleasured myself while fantasizing about Holmes performing the very act he had just suggested; why, then, had I run away?

And why was I trembling so?

I knew that Holmes would not be home tonight; doubtless he had retreated to one of the apartments he used for changing into his manifold disguises. I wandered back down to the sitting-room in low spirits indeed, determined to keep vigil until my friend returned, and to apologize for my irrational retreat. After that …

I sighed wearily, settling myself into my usual armchair, eventually falling into an uneasy slumber. All night long, I dreamed of Holmes, gladly surrendering myself to his embrace in my night-time visions. When I awoke, I understood all too well why I had rebuffed Holmes; I had simply panicked, and I resolved not to let my fears get the better of me again. But would I have a second chance, or had I ruined everything?

I did not see Holmes the next day, or the next. It was not until the third of January that he returned, his manner telling me all I needed to know. He treated me civilly, but with a cold regard which left no doubt as to the future of our relations. If I did not find a way to heal this rift between us and soon, our friendship would be over. Heartsick and anxious at this unpleasant prospect, I resolved to force the issue into the open.

On the afternoon of the fifth, I cornered Holmes, physically placing myself between him and his pipe-rack upon the mantel. He muttered something intended to cut me to the quick, but I stood my ground, assuming as conciliatory a posture as possible.

“Please, Holmes,” I said, “we need to discuss this.”

“There is nothing to discuss, Doctor,” he snapped, turning away with a sneer.

“I rather think there is,” I persisted, stepping around so that he faced me once more. “Holmes, I reacted out of fear before. I did not intend –”

“And just what did you intend?” Holmes hissed savagely. “Are you frightened of me, then?”

“No, Holmes! Never frightened, not of you, but –”

“Then what were you frightened of?”

“Of this!” I shouted angrily. “I’m afraid of making a mistake, or hurting you, or even ruining our friendship. Holmes, I would follow you to the ends of the earth, do anything you ask, go anywhere –”

“And there, Doctor,” he spat, “is our fundamental problem.”

“Holmes, I –”

“I want a partner, not an acolyte,” he growled. “If we were to become sexually involved, I would never know whether it was your free will or your twisted, sycophantic sense of duty that brought you to my bed.”

“Holmes, what can I do to convince –”

“Your actions, Doctor, more than amply spoke for your feelings upon the matter. When presented with the full reality of –”

“Damn it, man, I panicked! Have you never lost your nerve?”

Holmes fixed me with an imperious look. “Are you now saying that you have absolutely no reservations about the rather indecent proposal I put forward that evening?”

“Yes!” I barked impatiently.

“Yes, you should like to take me up upon my proposal, or yes, you wish –”

“Yes! To all of it! Holmes, I want –”

“So now you’re going to offer yourself up to me? Wrap yourself in a red ribbon and present yourself for my pleasure? Will you then withdraw again once I show interest?” he finished with a vicious snarl.

“Oh, for –” I decided that I had had enough of words. I stepped forward, attempting to draw him into an embrace, but he twisted out of my grasp.

“None of that, Doctor. I think I’ve learned my lesson,” he said coldly, and, crossing the room, snatched his coat and hat from the rack. “I shall be keeping our supper appointment with Mycroft alone, Doctor Watson,” he continued stonily. “I will convey to him your regrets; I neither expect nor want your company tonight. Good evening.” And with a final slam of the sitting-room door, he was gone.

I stared at the shut door blankly. I had failed to remember our appointment with Mycroft; tomorrow was Holmes’ birthday, and what with my preoccupation with our current situation, I had completely forgotten all about it.

Holmes’ birthday. Suddenly, I knew what I must do. Despite my bleak mood, I laughed aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. I found Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen and made known my request, then purloined a certain item from her sewing basket, securing it in my pocket for later before ascending to our sitting-room once more.

I just hoped that he would find my attempt amusing; if not, I would have to find other rooms immediately. The knowledge that I thus had nothing to lose emboldened me; I strode shamelessly into Holmes’ room and cast about upon his bookshelves, not knowing exactly what I was looking for, only that I would know it when I saw it.

The book in question was not upon the shelves, but had been carelessly tossed upon the floor at the foot of the bed, as if thrown there in disgust, or possibly frustration. I could imagine that after my rather unpredictable refusal of Holmes’ advances, he would be frustrated indeed. I sat upon the bed and thumbed through the slim black volume, wondering that someone would be able to publish such a thing; upon every page were pictures of two or three men together, all naked, all performing acts that were clearly against the laws of Britain. The longer I looked upon the illustrations, the more I knew that I wanted to try any and all of them with Holmes. I stripped myself naked and lay down upon Holmes’ bed, revelling in the scent of him upon the sheets as my hand strayed down to my already stiff member. One of the more graphic pictures had touched my imagination, and it was not long before I was up again, fetching a tallow candle from the side table. This time I sat upon the bed with back against the wall and my legs spread as wide as I could, the book between my knees. I stroked my cock a while, looking at the picture and wondering what it would feel like to be thus penetrated. While I kept pulling my prick with one hand, the other crept lower, and I assayed a fingertip at my hole, pleasantly surprised at the sensations it produced. Once I decided I was ready enough, I took up the candle and began frigging myself with it, groaning aloud as I imagined how good it would feel to have Holmes inside me. When my climax hit, it was all the stronger for the penetration, and I knew that I would not rest until I had had Holmes in this manner.

No, I was no longer afraid of what we might do together, I thought, and grinned widely as I cleansed myself and set the candle aside for later. I then snuggled down under the covers, knowing that I had time enough for a goodly nap before the man I loved returned.

When the brothers Holmes dine together, they do not rush through it. Mycroft is, predictably, a prodigious eater, and though Sherlock does not match his brother in girth, he has been known to enjoy his food when he chooses to indulge. I did not expect Holmes to return to Baker Street until well into the evening of the sixth, and I was not disappointed; it was well past ten o’clock when I heard the sitting-room door open and close. I listened to Holmes’ footsteps as he circled the room once, then left the room and ascended the stairs to my room, then came back down again. I heard him pull the bell and angrily ask Mrs. Hudson where in the devil I had gone, and bit the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing as she answered that she was not paid to keep track of me, thank you very much (the exact phrase I had suggested). I silently reached over to my jacket pocket and pulled out the roll of ribbon I had taken from Mrs. Hudson’s sewing basket, listening to Holmes’ step in the next room as I tied the ribbon around a certain portion of my anatomy and arranged myself in what I hoped would be an alluring pose.

As willing as I was, I should be lying if I claimed that my heart did not leap to my throat when Holmes finally entered the room.

“Watson what are you –” he gaped down at me in shock as I slowly moved aside the covers to reveal the full state of my nakedness. He stared at me for a long time, his mouth opening and closing slowly.

“Happy birthday, Holmes,” I murmured, wriggling my hips in as seductive a manner as possible.

“You’ve … you’ve got …” He shook his head. “Watson, why do you have a ribbon tied around your …” he faltered once more.

“I wasn’t sure what to get you for your birthday,” I said simply. “After all, what do you give the consulting detective who has everything?”

“I was hoping for a new microscope,” he muttered, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “Watson, does this … oh, damn it! What does this mean?”

“You’re the detective, Holmes. What does it look like?”

“You’d better not be toying with me,” he scowled.

For answer, I spread my legs invitingly. “I promise that I shall not run away again,” I told him. “Can you ever forgive me?”

This time, he smiled, and, to my intense relief, began untying his cravat. “So you’re my birthday present?” He sat down upon the bed, staring in disbelief at the ribbon. “Watson, about the other night –”

“I lost my nerve, Holmes. I’m sorry.”

“I must apologize as well. I certainly did not wish to frighten you. I see you have been doing some reading,” he continued, unbuttoning his shirt. “Did you find it interesting?”

“I found several things I want to try with you, yes,” I replied, as I sat up and began helping him remove his clothes. I leaned forward to kiss him, but he drew back, frowning sharply.

“Watson, can you remove that absurd ribbon, please?”

I put on my most coy manner and even fluttered my eyelashes humorously. “Why don’t you remove it?” I asked playfully. “You can even use something other than your hands, if you like.”

“And just how, pray tell, would I remove it without using – oh,” he finished, blushing furiously.

“You know,” I teased gently, “for someone who is so intelligent, you can certainly be incredibly naïve.”

Holmes shot me a reproachful look. “I am a virgin, Watson.”

It was my turn to blush, stammering an apology.

Holmes reached out and touched my cheek. “I think we have danced around the issue enough, old friend. I am completely inexperienced; I wish to gain experience, and you wish to show me. Shall we put this rough start behind us and continue?”

This time, when I leaned in for a kiss, he did not draw away, and this embrace was as sweet and delicious as any we had shared, his tongue flickering over my lips as I opened my mouth to his explorations. We sank down upon the bed together, trading soft kisses and murmured reassurances as we peeled off the rest of Holmes’ clothes. Soon we were tumbling together furiously, naked flesh rubbing against naked flesh, our bodies growing slick with perspiration, our throbbing pricks fencing between us, slightly chafing against the ribbon tied round my member.

Holmes clutched me tightly to him, his fingers digging into my shoulders and hips hard enough to leave marks, and his breath sounded ragged in my ears as he bit my neck. “Watson, what have you done to me?” he hissed in my ear. “I feel as if I am losing my mind for this feeling of desire.”

I smiled to myself, a flush of pride welling up in my heart to realize that I could bring my friend to this state. “Would you like me to bring you to completion?” I asked, kissing his cheek.

“For God’s sake, Watson, just do something,” he panted. “I don’t think I can stand this much longer.”

I trailed tiny nips of kisses along his neck, my lips caressing his collarbone and his chest, moving down to his abdomen, my tongue exploring every delicious inch of him, biting his hip-bone where it jutted out, laving along his thigh and then upward and to the centre, where his cock stood proud and throbbing before me, a drop of fluid already leaking from its tip. I hesitated only a moment before I kissed his manhood just at its most sensitive spot, relishing the salty flavour of him as I took his length into my mouth. Although I had never before done so in actuality, I had performed this act so many times in my fantasies, it felt as natural as breathing to suck upon him, tickling his prick with my lips and tongue as he moaned and sighed under my ministrations. His hands clutched at my shoulders and stroked my head, the long fingers weaving through my hair and fluttering over my skin as nervously as a startled dove, never staying in one place for longer than a moment. Soon his hips began rocking, and I knew that he was nearing his climax; I withdrew my mouth, for I had not yet finished driving the poor man wild – not yet, at least.

“Watson,” he groaned as I sat up, “you can’t … you can’t leave me like this.”

I touched his cheek gently as I straddled his chest. “I want you to be absolutely sure that it is not my twisted, sycophantic sense of duty that brings me here,” I told him with a chuckle.

His eyes shot wide open. “For pity’s sake, man –”

I laid a finger across his lips and moved my groin closer to his mouth, until my straining prick was just at his chin, the ribbon still tied loosely around its base. “Go on,” I commanded. “Unwrap your present.”

Smiling nervously, he took one end of the ribbon between his lips and gently pulled, untying the now-crumpled bow before taking me into his mouth, enveloping me in his warm, wet heat. His inexperience made his actions clumsy, but he more than made up for it in enthusiasm, closing his eyes as if the better to savour this delicacy with which I had presented him. I stroked his raven hair as I watched him suck me, his cheeks bulging as he took me into his throat.

A sudden scrape against my flesh jarred me only a little; I tapped upon his forehead lovingly. “No teeth,” I hissed.

He nodded and continued his efforts, but I knew I could not last long like this. Slowly, reluctantly, I withdrew myself from his mouth and leaned forward once more to kiss him, whispering to him exactly the words that had so frightened me just a week before. His eyes flew open at this, but he only nodded, biting his lip.

“There’s Vaseline in the side-table,” he said quietly.

It was only the work of a moment to retrieve the small container from the drawer; in another moment I was greasing up my needful length as Holmes slid a pillow beneath his hips, spreading himself before me. As I knelt between his thighs, however, a sudden sense of self-consciousness overwhelmed me.

What in the devil did I think I was doing?

Was I really going to sodomize Sherlock Holmes?

Once again, Holmes broke into my thoughts, his smile melting away my fears like snow before the springtime sun. He reached up and stroked my chest with a single long finger.

“It is neither a sin against nature, nor a disgusting act of thoughtless carnality, John,” said he softly, “rather it is the broaching of the last barrier between us.”

So startled was I by the use of my Christian name coupled with the gentleness of is voice, that for a moment I failed to comprehend the meaning of his words. When his import did dawn upon me, I found myself trembling with joy, and I could do nothing more than to allow him to take me into his graceful hands and guide me to his entrance.

We groaned as one as I drove myself into him, our conjoined bodies fitting together perfectly like a key into a lock. We paused a long time, not moving our hips, merely allowing ourselves to grow used to the sensation as I leaned forward and kissed him gently.

“How does it feel?” I asked, my lips not moving from his.

“Strange at first,” he admitted, “but wonderfully full. It doesn’t hurt at all like I imagined it would.”

“I look forward to having you do the same for me,” I said, as I began sliding myself in and out of his velvet tightness. I can claim knowledge of three continents’ worth of women, but not a one of them felt like this; his inner muscles gripped me tighter than I had ever been held before, and the strength of the body beneath me exceeded my own but lay open and vulnerable to my thrusts, giving me a heady sense of power unlike anything I had felt previously.

Our lips crushed furiously together as we quickened our pace, Holmes pumping his hips to meet mine as I slammed deeper into him. Our arms roamed freely over our sweat-flecked flesh, our fingers exploring every crevice of each others’ forms.

“Touch yourself for me,” I told him in between fervent kisses.

“I’m almost gone,” he moaned.

“I know; I want you to come with me.” I balanced myself upon one hand and slid the other to his prick. “Here, I’ll help,” I added huskily, as I began to feel my climax gathering.

“Always … always glad,” he panted, “always glad for your help, Wats—ungh …” His hand joined mine just as we reached the precipice, and I fell onto him, spilling myself into him as his seed gushed between our interwoven fingers.

Holmes’ lips trembled as they pressed against my neck. “Dearest Watson,” he sighed, as I slowly withdrew and lay down beside him. He pulled me toward him, and grimaced only slightly at the wet sensation of our joined fluids pooling together.

“I can get a towel,” I offered.

“Not yet; I think I can cope,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around me more tightly. “I feel singularly disinclined to let you move away from me.”

I chuckled at this, kissing his brow. “And I have no inclination to move away from you. But I know how important cleanliness is to you.”

“Good old Watson! You’re the epitome of the proper English gentleman.” We both laughed at the absurdity of this remark in light of our current position. Holmes cupped my chin in his hand and brought my mouth to his for a long, lingering kiss, then drew away slightly, regarding me with brilliantly shining eyes. “You do know,” said he solemnly, “that I hold you – and our friendship – in the highest esteem.”

An icy-cold rivulet of fear opened up in my heart. “I hold you to no promises,” I answered quickly, “and I understand that you cannot let your emotions get in the way of your intellect –”

He silenced me with another kiss. “Do you think I have not considered the possibilities of what an emotional attachment might do to my faculties? What do you think I talked with Mycroft about for six hours?”

I sat up quickly, my heart at my throat. “You told Mycroft about us?” I gasped.

Holmes laughed lightly, pulling me back down into his arms. “If you had been waiting for me in the sitting room, properly dressed, rather than laying in my bedroom with a ribbon round your prick, I would have delivered the rather handsome apology he helped me prepare.”

“Perhaps you can save it for later,” I retorted with a chuckle. “But what about your ability to balance your emotions with your faculties? Things are not going to get less rocky between us, Holmes.”

“I am quite aware of that, Watson. But Mycroft and I are optimistic, albeit cautiously so.”

“Cautiously optimistic?” I laughed. “Holmes, this isn’t an option on South African gold shares, this is –” I brought myself up short just in time, but he shook his head gravely, taking my hand in his.

“This is love,” he said in a low voice. “I am not comfortable with the softer emotions, as well you know, but to deny the facts would be foolish and potentially damaging. These feelings exist; I shall have to learn to deal with them. I know,” he added with a ghost of a smile, “that I may rely upon you to help me.”

“I’m always ready to lend a hand,” I said, savouring Holmes’ blush as the import of the weak pun hit him. We lay for a while in silence, trading soft kisses and gentle caresses, but soon I could tell that Holmes was growing uncomfortable as our joined seed cooled between us.

“Do you wish to get cleaned up?” I offered.

Holmes nodded. “It is interesting to note that fluids which start off at blood heat can cool so rapidly, even in a bed with two warm bodies,” said he, as he gingerly extricated himself from the soiled linen beneath us. “I can see that the messiness of the act shall be a challenge for me.”

“I should have prepared better and remembered to have some towels on hand,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“Ah, but you did not know what my reaction would be. I could have thrown you bodily out of the room.”

“I was hoping that you wouldn’t,” I answered. “But as I felt that events had come to such a pass, that I had nothing to lose by taking the plunge, so to speak.”

“And the ribbon?”

I blushed heavily as we sorted through the clothing strewn upon the floor. “I hoped that you might find it so humorous as to forget some of your anger,” I confessed.

“My dear fellow, Mycroft had already stripped me of any anger I had left toward you well before the second course; by dessert, he had instilled a hearty sense of regret for any hurt I may have caused you. Any anger in my voice or manner when I entered this room you may attribute to pure bluster upon my part.” By this point, we had pulled on enough clothes to present a semblance of decency, and Holmes slowly opened the door to the hallway, peering around the corner.

“Mrs. Hudson’s been asleep for hours, I’m sure,” I said.

“Still, one can never be too cautious in such matters,” he answered, frowning at the empty hallway.

“You speak as if from experience,” I teased.

“Once does not need experience to comprehend the danger inherent in our actions,” he replied seriously, turning to face me. “Watson, are you sure you wish to –”

I stopped his words by pulling him into a fierce kiss, crushing my mouth into his, then pulled away, looking directly up into his eyes, his chin still cupped in my hand. “Whatever danger we face, we face together,” I told him.

I must admit that I felt as if we were a couple of mischievous boys sneaking around after curfew at the dormitory rather than two grown men in their own flat as we tiptoed across to the bathroom. Once the door was shut and locked behind us, Holmes had me up against the wall by the tub, his mouth upon mine, as his nimble hands quickly worked to strip off my clothes.

“I thought we were trying to clean up, not create another mess,” I said as we broke apart breathlessly. Once more, my prick was stiff and needful, and Holmes’ own hardness was poking obscenely through the opening of his dressing-gown. Despite my words, I found myself sinking to my knees before this delight, taking it into my mouth before I realized what I was doing, cupping his pendulous sac in my hand.

Holmes began swearing softly in French as he stumbled backwards slightly, putting one hand out to brace himself against the sink while the other threaded through my hair. I sucked his length deep down my throat, then released it all the way to the tip, then sucked it in once more, while Holmes moaned above me, his hips pumping slightly under my attentions. I wrapped my tongue around his shaft, tasting every last delicious inch of him, all the while tickling his ballsac lightly, one finger straying back to his twitching hole, savouring how this sent my friend into a frenzy of babbling in French; even with my limited vocabulary, my heart swelled as I realized that Holmes was swearing his undying love and loyalty to me and me alone, calling me by a thousand terms of endearment that I should not have credited to the brain without a heart of whom I had written in the Strand.

I slid a finger inside him as his hips began pumping in earnest, frigging him furiously as he thrust his cock further down my throat, and soon he made as if to pull away, his actions telling me more than his words that he was ready to spend himself; I pulled him deeper down my throat and swallowed every drop he gave me, holding him firmly between my lips as he poured his musky seed into me.

“Sweet mother of God, Watson,” he panted, sinking down to the floor. I wrapped my arms around him, claiming his mouth and giving him a taste of his essence. “Well, that is one way of disposing of the mess,” he chuckled, after we had kissed for a while. “I don’t suppose swallowing it is deleterious to your health?”

“It’s merely extra protein,” I told him, as we helped each other to our feet. We embraced again, my still-throbbing prick rubbing up against his belly. Holmes smiled as he reached down to touch it, stroking it as if it were a cat. I closed my eyes and moaned softly into his shoulder as his fingers worked upon my shaft, caressing it with all the skill he used for his scientific instruments.

“No offence, my boy,” he murmured as he gripped my prick firmly, “but considering where it’s been, I shall want to wash it before I return your favour.” He reached behind me and plucked a hand towel from the hook by the basin, saturating it with warm soapy water before applying it to my member.

He sank to his knees before me and washed my privates gently, as I leaned against the sink, running my fingers through his raven hair. Slowly Holmes lathered me up, then stood up to rinse off the towel. I took the opportunity to wrap my arms around his lithe waist and draw him to me for another lingering kiss, grinding my hips into his.

Holmes pulled away with a smile. “Tut, man,” said he in mock disgust. “You’ve got me all soapy now.”

“A thousand apologies,” I murmured, imitating Holmes’ cadence of voice, “I had no intention of distracting you from your task. Pray continue.”

This time I allowed him to rinse the towel unhindered, groaning involuntarily as held the now-dripping towel above my straining prick and squeezed it, sending a stream of warm water cascading over my groin, rinsing away the suds and leaving me trembling for more.

Holmes went down upon his knees once more, looking up at me with twinkling eyes. I touched his cheek, watching as he slowly licked my length from base to tip, groaning as he took my testes into his warm mouth, laving them one at a time before releasing them with a sweet kiss. He then swallowed my weeping cock, sucking upon it so hard that I had to grip his shoulders for balance as his head bobbed furiously up and down.

I could feel the climax starting at the base of my spine, and I tried to warn Holmes, but he shook his head and redoubled his efforts, pulling my seed from me and into his waiting throat. I barely kept to my feet with the force of it, as white-hot jolts of pleasure racked my body, and I called out his name as I poured myself into him, my member jumping and twitching against his relentless tongue.

This time it was Holmes’ turn to show me how I tasted, and we lazily exchanged a sweet, lingering kiss before addressing ourselves to the onerous task of cleaning up the bathroom. That accomplished, we pulled on our clothes and exited the room, only to run into Mrs. Hudson in the hallway.

We gaped at our landlady in shock; from our state of dishabille and sheepish expressions, there could be no doubt as to our recent activities, and Mrs. Hudson’s appearance and manner told us that she had been roused from her bed by the noise.

“If you’re going to engage in such acts,” said she in her sternest voice, “could you at least confine yourselves to Doctor Watson’s room? Some of us are trying to sleep. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she continued, raising a finger to silence Holmes’ protest. “The way you two were grabbing at each other under the mistletoe, I knew it was only a matter of time before you realized how you felt about each other. Why do you think I put it up there in the first place?” And with that, she turned to descend the stairs once more.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said slowly, “do you mean that you –” he paused uncertainly.

Mrs. Hudson turned upon the stair and smiled up at us. “I think,” she answered firmly, “that I shall be serving breakfast late this morning. Shall I leave the tray outside your door, Doctor?”

“That shall be fine,” I said numbly.

Mrs. Hudson gave a satisfied nod. “Well, then, that seems to settle it. I should prefer in the future that you choose one bedroom and stick to it; that shall save me trouble on the laundry, at least.”

“Mrs. Hudson –” Holmes began again, but she silenced him with an impatient wave.

“I should rather have the two of you breaking the law of England than shooting bullet holes in my wall any day of the week,” she said simply. “I wish to hear no more about it; I am an old woman, gentlemen, and I need my rest. Good night,” she finished, and swept down the stairs and out of sight.

We looked at each other and burst into laughter, not stopping until we reached my bed, where our mouths became otherwise occupied until sunrise.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

What do you give the detective who has everything?