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Weaknesses	By : pandapony Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 12125 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-Weaknesses
- 1
Credits: Thank you once again to my incredible beta, k_haldane!

Setting: This story is an alternative version of The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez. I wrote it as a challenge to myself to slash up a story in the canon that is not usually considered very slashy, and also to chronologically follow my previous story, “Reunion,” which was set during The Empty House.
Note: Much of the dialog and setting are straight from the original story of The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez. My goal was to add slashy bits to an existing piece of the canon.

#
Seven months after Sherlock Holmes’ remarkable resurrection following the events I described in “The Empty House”, he and I found ourselves at home on a tempestuous November night. Holmes and I sat together in silence all evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows.
I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted street. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.
“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out tonight,” said Holmes, laying aside his lens. “I’ve done enough for one sitting. It is tiring work for the eyes.”
A gust of wind shook the window in its frame, and I instinctively stepped back. I had been feeling melancholy all evening, ever since having returned from an unsuccessful surgery that afternoon. I had stood by and watched as one of my oldest patients, a man I had grown fond of over the years, died on the operating table. I knew, logically, that there was little I could have done to prevent his demise. We had tried everything, but his condition was too far advanced to stop the natural course of events that his failing heart had begun.
Nevertheless, there was a deep ache within me for the tragedy of it all. I had never gotten used to watching someone die in front of me. Even during my years in the army I had not hardened to the sight of dying. A corpse come upon at a crime scene was no trouble for me. Even the death of someone I cared for from a distance was more bearable.
But I truly hated watching someone die before my very eyes. It seemed to be more than just an illustration of my failures as a doctor. Watching someone struggle against death and let go filled me with a melancholy unlike any other I experienced. It was the deep sadness of watching mortality transpire that turned me into a doctor in the first place. I had no deep love of science, or even of the prestige of the medical profession. I simply despised watching death occur.
Hours later, even a hearty supper and several drinks had done little to reduce my sadness. The tumultuous wind and rain outside only exacerbated my dark thoughts. In moments like this, there was only one person I could turn to, in the hopes that my spirit could be lifted.
Holmes sat at his chemistry table. He rolled his head, gripping his shoulder, working out the ache of staring through his glass for hours on end.
I approached him slowly. He had obviously detected my depression, and had been quiet and distant all evening. For him, perhaps, he preferred to be left alone when suffering a black mood. But as for myself, I needed the comfort of his attentions, the reassurance of his body, hot and full of life, to banish the memory of death.
I stood behind him and began to massage his shoulders. Holmes moaned softly and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile.
“Ah, Watson. The healing hands of a doctor, indeed.” I used my thumbs to work out the kinks and knots of his sinewy shoulders. Standing so close to him, I could smell Holmes’ cologne, his tobacco, and the faint, sweet smell of his skin.
Holmes and I had been lovers since he had returned from the dead. All of my initial hesitations had long ago vanished in the sweetness of his embrace. The last few months had been full of exploration and experimentation. I had tried new things that I had not the creativity to previously imagine. Seven months into our sexual relationship, and I still felt a tingling throughout my entire body at the slightest touch. As I rubbed Holmes’ shoulders, I began to relax, and the darkness of that afternoon faded as I became flushed with another emotion, one more primal, of need.
Glancing down Holmes’ languid body, I witnessed that my innocent massage was giving Holmes alternative motives as well. He slowly reached his hand upwards and caressed my arm.
“Shall we call it a night?” he whispered. His soft, gray eyes opened and glinted mischievously.
I smiled down at him. “Are you tired?”
“No.” He reached his hand up further to cup the back of my neck.
I leaned down and kissed him. His tongue burst into my mouth and I reciprocated, wanting to feel the intense heat inside. We kissed lazily for a long moment. I savored the taste of him, the warmth of his lips, enjoying the soft pleasure of arousal growing through my body.
But amid the droning of the wind there suddenly came the stamping of a horse’s hooves and the long grind of a wheel as it pulled up against the curb.
“Damn it,” I cursed, pulling away from him. There had been many times that I found myself frustrated by the irregular hours of Holmes’ profession, but never more than I was at this moment.
“Halloa, what’s this?” Holmes asked, standing up.
I went back to the window and saw a man step out of a cab below.
“What can he want?” I grumbled, barely controlling my anger at the intrusion. I needed Holmes at the moment, and was not in the mood to share.
“Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats and galoshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather.”
“No, we want privacy,” said I. I placed my hand, gently, on his backside. I loved seeing the shiver of pleasure course through Holmes’ body at my mere touch. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Holmes appeared to sway on his feet, but then he snapped his eyes open and rushed to the window.
“Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again! There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have long been in bed.”
As I started across the room towards the stairs, Holmes quickly reached out and squeezed my erect member through my trousers, a mischievous grin upon his face.
“Un-virtuous folk like us will simply have to wait a bit longer before we can indulge in our privacies.”
I kissed him briefly, then went downstairs to admit our midnight visitor. Upon opening the door I recognized young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective in whose career Holmes had shown interest.
“Is he in?” he asked eagerly.
“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’ voice from above. “I hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this.”
Holmes livened the fire as I helped Hopkins out of his waterproof.
“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said Holmes. “Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something important which has brought you out in such a gale.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes.” Hopkins immediately launched into a retelling of the mystery which took place the previous night at Yoxley Old Place, and the shocking death of young Mr. Willoughby Smith, secretary to the old owner of the mansion, Professor Coram.
I have explained in detail the circumstances of this mystery in my short treatise entitled “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez,” and will not recount the singular circumstances surrounding Mr. Smith’s untimely demise here. Suffice it to say, Holmes was immediately entranced with the mystery, and I recognized the gleam in his eyes and the quiver of excitement through his thin frame the moment that Hopkins asked Holmes for his opinion. With a sigh, I realized that our evening alone was to be put on hold until this case was solved.
“What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime,” said Hopkins, shaking his head. “Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”
“Ah! There I am not in a position to help you,” said Holmes. “But I suppose you want us to come out tomorrow?”
“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”
Holmes gave me a quick, apologetic look. I already knew what he was going to say. With only the slightest of grunts, I acquiesced.
“Then we shall take it,” said Holmes. He stood and stretched. “Your case has certainly some features of great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it’s nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep.”
Hopkins appeared sheepish. “I sent my cab home. Would it be all right if I were to stretch out on your sofa for the rest of the night? I can manage well enough in front of the fire.”
Holmes shot me a glance before smiling at the inspector. “Nonsense, my dear fellow! You shall have one of our rooms.”
Hopkins immediately protested. “No, sir, I do not mean to impose…”
“…Do not worry yourself,” said I. “I have fallen asleep on the settee more times than I can count. Let me show you to my room. Might as well have a comfortable night’s sleep for the few hours this case affords, eh?”
“If you insist… thank you.”
I grinned to myself as I led the very humbled Hopkins upstairs to my room. I lit the lamps for him and wished him a good night. I myself hadn’t slept in the bed for weeks, and so it was no great discomfort to leave a virtual stranger in my room.
Downstairs, I quietly opened the door to Holmes’ room.
“Is he in for the night?” Holmes whispered, looking anxiously towards the hall.
“Yes,” said I. “Although we should not do anything. It is dreadfully risky with a police officer in the house, and I—“
Holmes crushed his lips to mine and pushed me down on the bed. There was a glint in his eyes, a flush to his features, and I realized that the presence of the law in our home did nothing but arouse him further. I must confess that the danger added a new element to our escapades for me as well.
Holmes reached down and cupped me between my legs. I moaned, but he quickly covered my mouth with his hand, staring at me intently.
“No sounds. Nothing. Do you understand?” he whispered. His tongue followed his words and gently licked the inside of my ear. I bit back a cry and nodded, closing my eyes to hold in the desire to make noise.
Neither of us were quiet lovers. Very early in our romantic association, I discovered that I could make Holmes whimper and shout out with certain touches. He, too, seemed to delight in finding the places on my body where I was guaranteed to buck and yell. There had been several instances where Mrs. Hudson had come to investigate our nocturnal cries, in fear for our safety. But she is an intelligent woman, and it did not take long for her to discreetly figure out what her tenants were up to, and leave us alone.
But now it was torture, keeping my voice stifled. Holmes kissed me, his tongue pushing deep inside of my mouth, running over my teeth, his lips sealed against mine so tightly I could barely breathe, let alone cry out. With shocking speed he soon had me out of my trousers, but still in my socks, my shirt on but crumpling quickly.
Holmes crouched over my member and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and smiling. He was an olfactory creature, one who loved the smells of sex almost as much as the feel of it, and I saw the flush of arousal color his cheeks as he nuzzled me between the legs, gently urging my legs wider.
He dragged his tongue along the side of my shaft. He then pulled my sac into his mouth and gently laved each testicle with his tongue.
I arched on his bed and did cry out, unable to control myself. Holmes pulled his head away and clucked his tongue at me. He reached up and untied my cravat, and used it to bind my mouth shut.
I was shocked by the surge of arousal such binding brought through me. I had never thought myself the kind of man who enjoyed being submissive, but having Holmes gag me did nothing but drive my desire to greater heights than I thought I could bear. I squirmed on the bed as he swirled my sac in his mouth, my cries unstoppable, but silenced by the fabric.
My hands grappled for Holmes. I wanted to feel his thick heat in my hands, and I gracelessly pawed at the bulge in his trousers until he laughed quietly and undressed. He straddled me, and we used our hands to stroke our pricks together. I could see Holmes biting back his own moans, chewing on his lip as I rubbed his sac against mine.
In an instant he lifted himself from me and reached under his mattress for the lubricant he stored there. I watched with keen interest as he coated his prick with the pungent oil. He knelt between my legs and pushed me open wider, and so I was completely exposed and open to him. He looked down at me, eyes wide with desire, his entire body quivering with excitement.
But he did not enter me yet. He just stared at the site of my open crotch, as if mesmerized. Finally I could take it no longer, and reached up to untie the cravat around my mouth.
“Holmes, please…” I whispered.
He looked at me, startled, as if I had woken him from a trance. He smiled slowly, lazily, as he leaned down and wrapped his lips around the tip of my cock. At the same time, he slowly sank his lubricated middle finger into my opening. My body spasmed with the sensation. It was so shocking and pleasurable, I could barely breathe.
Holmes pulled his finger out and repositioned himself, lining his thick cock up with my entrance. I gripped his arms to encourage him. He grabbed a pillow from the top of his bed and lifted my hips, placing the pillow under me to raise me up, open me wider for him.
And then he pushed into me.
It was still a shock every time he entered me. No matter how prepared I was, how ready for his heavy fullness, I always sucked in my breath, wondered at how I was allowing him to do this.
But even stranger, after all this time, was that Holmes never seemed to learn that my initial shock would go away. He would immediately freeze his process of entering me, and he would look down with an expression of horror.
“Have I hurt you?” he whispered, panicked.
“No. Go on,” I urged him. The shock was already subsiding. Now I wanted to feel what made this whole experience so precious.
Watching my face closely for a reaction, Holmes slowly pushed his prick inside. I could feel my skin stretch and make room for him, hugging his flesh tightly, accommodating his wide shaft only with resistance. Perhaps the shock came from the differences in size. In any case, it always took me a moment to breathe deeply, get used to the feel of Holmes so far inside my body.
I slowly rocked against him. This was my signal to him to proceed. Holmes moved carefully. But within moments his desire pushed him faster, deeper, and he groaned as he ground into my flesh.
At the sensation of his tip rubbing against my prostate I devolved into whispered whimpers. I held the back of my knees up and scooted onto the pillow to lift my hips higher, pull him deeper inside.
Holmes’ forehead beaded with sweat, and he had his eyes closed and his lips pursed, his eyebrows crumpled with a look of complete and utter concentration. He treated our coupling like a religious devotee, his face quite severe as he pumped inside of me, expression closed.
Holmes shifted his weight onto his left arm, and used his slick right palm to reach down for my member. I gasped at the contact. My prick felt as though it would explode. His dexterous massaging of my tip, coupled with the feel of his cock up me, caused me to climax much faster than I had hoped. My whole body arched up to him, and I used my arms to grind him against me, wishing he could sink through my entire body.
Only seconds later, Holmes grappled to pull me to him, clutching my breast to his as he pumped his seed with a ragged breath.
We held on to each other and breathed heavily. Holmes left his member inside as his entire body shook with the aftershocks of his pleasure. He reached up and ran his long fingers through my hair, sighing contentedly.
The delightful feeling of his sated body, his fingers in my hair, and the loveliness of having banished my earlier melancholy led me to speak my mind.
“I love you,” I whispered. Instantly, I regretted it. We had rarely spoken out loud of our affection, and Holmes seemed to still hold in much of his emotion.
But to my surprise, Holmes pulled away to stare into my face, the most charming, innocent smile on his face. “You do?” he whispered back, his eyes bright with emotion.
I nodded. He said nothing in return, but gave me the sweetest, most affectionate kiss instead. He then leaned back against the bed. His prick slipped from inside of me and I sighed. I curled up against him, yawning. He put his arm around my shoulder.
“We should clean up,” Holmes whispered. He lit himself a cigarette.
I nodded. “It smells like semen and sweat and shit in here.”
“And cigarettes, to continue your alliteration.” Holmes took a deep drag and then handed his cigarette to me. We lay back against the covers and passed the fag between us, staring up at the ceiling, our fingers casually, loosely, intertwined.
“I like the smell,” said Holmes.
“Yes, well, Hopkins may be a fool in comparison to you, but even a dullard can conclude what has been going on in here.”
Holmes snorted. “The idea is so repugnant to him, I doubt it would enter his mind.”
I propped myself up on one elbow to look at Holmes. “What makes you say that?”
Holmes stretched and yawned. “I heard him say it, during that case a few years ago –- do you recall the East End strangulations? They took place in a bordello, and Hopkins called me in for consultation.”
“Oh, yes.”
“It wasn’t just any bordello, Watson.” The corner of Holmes’ mouth lifted slightly. “Let us just say that Hopkins was particularly startled by the idea of men buggering other men. He said they should be shot like dogs.”
A shiver ran down my spine. For Holmes, this was idle conversation. But as we spoke, we were sleeping just below the man, naked in each other’s arms, both of us stained with evidence of our sin. I put out the cigarette and leapt out of bed, reaching for Holmes’ dressing gown.
“Where are you going?” he asked, sitting up.
“To wash off all your body fluids before I am shot like a dog.”
“Come back to bed,” Holmes urged. He opened up the covers for me. “You’ll catch a chill washing with cold water in the middle of the night.”
“It won’t be as bad as a bullet through the brain,” I countered. Holmes just chuckled. For him, the threat of being discovered had always been a distant one, and something he rarely considered. In his mind, no one had suspected us for years, and so he believed most people were too inept at observation to note any change in us now.
I, however, lived in constant fear of detection. Therefore, despite the unappealing prospect of cold water on my most sensitive regions, I nevertheless made my way to the bath room, to remove traces of our guilt, and prepare for an early morning adventure with a man who would hate my true nature.
#
The gale had blown itself out the next day, but it was a bitter morning when we started upon our journey. If Stanley Hopkins had heard any of our nocturnal activities, he did not mention it. Indeed, he seemed quite rested, which was more than I could say for myself.
When I finally managed to drift off beside Holmes, I would be abruptly awoken by Holmes himself. Early in our relationship I noted that he would often startle awake in the middle of the night, and suddenly cling to me. It was unusual in that Holmes generally preferred to fall asleep without our limbs wrapped around each other. He often claimed I was strangling him with my affections at night. And yet at least once each night, it was he who woke me up and pulled me to him in a desperate embrace.
By the second time he had done so, I had had enough. I grabbed Holmes’ extra, ratted old blanket and tried to sleep on the couch by the fire. It seemed as though mere minutes had passed when Holmes was gently shaking my shoulder, commanding me to make my toilet and be ready to leave the house in ten minutes. I blinked up at him, and at Hopkins, standing beside him, both dressed in their finest, and I scrambled to catch up.
How Holmes can be so cheery on so little sleep, I will never understand.
We made our way with Inspector Hopkins along the Thames and to the charming manor of Yoxley Old Place. Upon arrival, Hopkins gave us both a tour of the crime scene and explained his own observations, before introducing us to the strange old man who resided there, Professor Coram.
Holmes asked numerous questions and seemed to find certain facts very exciting, especially the coconut matting within the house and the single path along the grass which suggested that the murderer had traversed the narrow walkway very carefully.
As Holmes spoke with the Professor, he smoked an endless chain of Coram’s expensive cigarettes. I knew he was pursuing some secretive plan, by the way his eyes darted around the room restlessly. I searched the room as well, hoping to discover what it was that Holmes observed so clearly. However, as always, I failed to follow his deductive reasoning.
Holmes glanced around the room and smoked restlessly as he spoke. But then his eyes caught mine, briefly. And as would happen, every once in a while in public, he would suddenly blush, a faint tinge of pink coloring his cheeks. It was so subtle, I doubt any of the other men in the room took notice. But I saw it and realized that I had occupied Holmes’ thoughts. I smiled with pride.
After our interview, Holmes informed the Professor and the rest of us that he would prefer to turn the matter over in his head down in the garden. He was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path for some time in silence. His behavior was so unusual I chanced a brief squeeze of his hand, and even a stroke along his back, to reassure him.
“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.
“It depends on those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”
I frowned at him, but he did not grace me with an explanation. It frustrated me, when he would hold back his theories.
“I wish you would be more open.” I sighed.
Holmes’ distracted glance suddenly softened. He smiled at me, eyes wide and bright, and for a moment, a mischievous glint appeared. It seemed much of his preoccupied state was simply an act.
“Trust me, my dear. You may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”
I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill, and was chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

Indeed, I would go so far as to say that Holmes was openly flirtatious with the woman. He sat against the garden wall languidly, in his bohemian fashion, and watched her with his intent gaze. I myself had been the subject of such a sultry glance for so long that I recognized it at once. And to my surprise, seeing him apply it to a person other than me brought a bright flush of jealousy to my cheeks. I glared at him. But he barely spared me a second glance, instead focusing on Mrs. Marker’s body as though he wanted to devour it.
“Does he smoke a great deal?” Holmes asked her, taking a leisurely drag off his own cigarette.
I frowned at him. He didn’t look at me. I sat next to Holmes pointedly, but he still did not take his gaze off the housekeeper.
And Mrs. Marker responded to his ingratiating behavior. I could see her flush as well, I watched her take in his body, her eyes focusing on the soft fullness of Holmes’ red lips.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir.” She moved closer to him and smiled. “He does smoke something terrible. I’ve seen that room of a morning – well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London fog.”
Holmes laughed, and she laughed with him. I noted with some relief that at least it was his false laugh. Holmes extinguished his cigarette and leaned closer to the girl.
“All that smoking must kill his appetite.” His voice had gone rather sensual.
Mrs. Marker leaned in conspiratorially. She smiled at him. “Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”
“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”
“Well, you’re out there, sir,” said Mrs. Marker, being so bold as to sit next to him on the stone wall. To my further chagrin, she touched Holmes’ shoulder. “As it happens, he ate a remarkable big breakfast this morning.”
“You don’t say.” Holmes smiled at her.
Mrs. Marker had gone quite flush. “I don’t know when I’ve known him make a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn’t bear to look at food.”
“My poor dear,” Holmes said, patting her hand affectionately.
“Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor hasn’t let it take his appetite away.”
The two of them sat next to each other, staring into each other’s eyes for another ghastly minute, before someone called to her from the main house. In a dash, she was up and away from us. By the time Holmes finally rose to walk around the garden with me, I was seething.
“Come, Watson, let us explore Yoxley Old Place’s pond side, shall we?” He led the way. I was still bitter. I did not like the ease in which Holmes had been able to turn on his sexual charm. It made the looks he gave me feel less sincere, knowing he could falsify them when he so desired.
We walked along the pond side until we reached an edge of the water’s front that was overgrown with bushes. There was a small gardener’s shed that had been overtaken by brambles, and was rotting in solitude by the water. Holmes grabbed my arm and led me around to the back. He pushed me against the dirty boards of the old shed and kissed me, hard, grinding his groin into mine.
I kissed him back, but I glared at him once he pulled away.
“Do not be cross with me,” he said, trying to smile and lighten the endeavor. “I only wished to obtain information.”
“And how far will you go for this information?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Would you have accompanied our desperate housekeeper to her boudoir, if the case required it?”
Holmes clucked his tongue. “Watson! I had always assumed you to be a selfless man. Now I see you are quite proprietary.”
“I do not like watching you make love to others,” said I, wishing I sounded more angry and less injured.
Holmes smiled sensually. “I make love to no one but you.”
“You made love with Mrs. Marker,” I explained. “If not with your body than with your eyes.”
“Have I ever given you reason to distrust my loyalty?” Holmes wrapped his arms around me. He gently nuzzled my ear, making it very hard for me to stay angry.
“Just now you have,” said I. I leaned back against the shed and closed my eyes.
Holmes kissed my chin, my cheek, my bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth slowly. He licked at my lips until I opened for him, and he plunged his tongue into my mouth, causing an immediate stirring in my groin.
“Make up with me,” said Holmes.
It was hard to do anything else with his tongue in my mouth. I could feel his hardness press against mine. All I wanted to do now was bend him over.
“I want to take you,” I whispered in his ear.
Holmes shivered, pulling me closer. “Then do it.”
I turned and pushed him against the wall. As much as I wanted to rip his trousers from him, I realized that I could not cause any damage to his garments while we were so far from a wardrobe change. I carefully unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down just far enough to grant me access to his smooth white backside, which appeared almost ivory in the dappled sunlight of the bushes.
I spat onto my hand and used my fingers to rub saliva around his opening. Holmes’ entire body began to tremble with the touch. He was acutely sensitive there, and the slightest flirtation of my fingers along his opening caused him to gasp and push back against me for more.
“I want you to say you are mine,” I whispered in his ear. I sank my fingers slowly inside of him, circling his insides to open him for me.
“I am yours.” Holmes’ voice was ragged and thick. He spread his arms wider to brace himself as he pushed back into my fingers.
Seeing him displayed thus, I could no longer hold back.
“Oh, God.” I spread him open and held him firmly by the hips as I entered him.
There was such a precious moment, as if time itself stopped, when I would first enter Holmes. He would close his eyes and stop breathing, as if savoring the moment. I myself was stunned by explosive pleasure, the tight heat forming a warm glove around my most sensitive organ. We would both freeze in a state of absolute bliss. If I could choose to die at any moment, it would be this, this first, exquisite moment of penetration. But within seconds, I had to have more, and pushed deeper.
Holmes took all of me inside of him without a sound. He pushed against the wall of the shed and I held him up by his hips, grinding his opening and filling him up. I reached around to stroke his own heavy cock as I did so, and he let out a barely audible moan.
It did not take long for me to reach my completion. With one last thrust I tried to get as deep as possible into my best friend, and then let go with a shudder and a gasp.
I caught my breath for a moment more, and then turned Holmes around.
His cock was engorged and purple with need. I quickly knelt in front of him and wrapped my lips around his prick. After penetration, Holmes usually came within seconds. It was no different this time, with the added danger of making love in public adding a heightened awareness to all of our actions. Holmes’ fingers curled in my hair and pulled my face to his crotch as he came, his lips trembling, his eyes closed, a look of absolute serenity on his features.
I gave him one last kiss on the tip of his erection before standing. I refastened my trousers, and helped him re-buckle his from where they had pooled at his feet.
“Hopkins may be back from town,” I said, my voice still gravelly with desire. “We should return before they start looking for us.”
Holmes nodded mutely. His expression looked dazed, and for a moment, I could not make out if he was happy or confused. But then he reached for me and hugged me to him with child-like intensity. I stroked his back silently, reassuringly. He tried to comb down my hair with his hands, and laughed shyly.
“I’ve made a mess of you,” he said. His eyes were wide and joyful. There was nothing more beautiful than Sherlock Holmes after he has been made love to. He was all soft, dazed happiness. His mouth curved into the most delightful little smile, which would not go away for hours.
I picked up my bowler hat from where it had tumbled in the bushes, brushed it off, and pushed it down on my head.
“Does it hide the damage?” I asked him.
Holmes stared at me with an expression of absolute affection.
“You are more beautiful than any creature on this planet, Watson.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Holmes…” I mumbled, shuffling past him with my head low to hide my pleased expression.
We re-emerged several minutes later, and continued our meandering path through the large grounds while Stanley Hopkins returned to the village to check into some rumors circulating about a woman spotted. I savored the taste of Holmes in my mouth, the smell of him on my fingers, and I looked over to see that he, too, seemed to be lost in a tranquil memory which kept that small, dreamy smile upon his face.
However, all his energy towards the case seemed to have deserted him after our lovemaking. I had never known Holmes to handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion, and for a time I began to feel responsible, if I had somehow polluted his great mind by my very distraction.
It was almost impossible to read Holmes’ mental state as we continued to wait around the house. I began to lose all hope that Holmes would take further interest in the case, when suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch.
“Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up and have it out with our friend the Professor.”
The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us, the eternal cigarette smoldering between his lips.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes’ eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with color. Only in the heat of passion, or else in a crisis, have I seen those battle-signals flying.
“Yes,” said he, face flushed, “I have solved it.”
Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. The old Professor sneered.
“Indeed! In the garden?”
“No, here.”
“Here! When?”
“This instant.”
“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and I am sure that it is sound.”
To my utter surprise, Holmes described the murder, and then accused the professor himself of aiding the female criminal in hiding.
The Professor burst into high-keyed laughter, rising to his feet. “You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to escape? Where is she now?”
“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner of the room.
The old man threw up his arms and convulsed, just as the bookcase swung open and a woman rushed into the room.
I was so startled by the sudden burst of activity I fell backwards, leaning against the wall in the need for support.
“You are right!” the woman cried in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”
Holmes was suddenly beside me, holding my arm for support. I felt foolish in my over-reaction to the revelation, and shrugged his steadying hand off.
The woman who had emerged from the bookcase was brown with dust and draped in cobwebs. Her face was streaked with grime, but it was still possible to see that she bored the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined.
In her broken English, the woman recounted her tale. Hopkins had initially laid his hand on her arm to claim her as his prisoner, but it was soon obvious that she wanted to tell us her unhappy tale, and had no intention of fleeing the room.
As she spoke, she began to turn a dreadful color, and seated herself on the side of the bed. I made to tend to her, but Holmes held me back, listening to her tale with a rapt expression. He so loved the conclusion of his cases, when the captured revealed all the minute details Holmes had been unable to ascertain during his investigation. More so, I believe Holmes reveled in having all of his hypotheses confirmed in front of an admiring audience. Holmes was nothing if not conceited.
The woman’s face contorted in pain as she spoke. She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. “These are my last words,” said she. “Here is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honor and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have done my duty, and – “
“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had wrenched a small phial from her hand.
“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”
And with that, the woman collapsed unconscious onto the bed. I rushed to her aid, but could find no pulse. I pulled her upright onto the duvet and attempted resuscitation. The room was silent as I endeavored to bring her back to life. Holmes said nothing; he merely lifted an eyebrow at me as I breathed for her.
But after several minutes passed, Holmes laid his hand on my shoulder. “She’s dead, John.”
“I know that!” I snapped, pulling away from her and from him. I covered my face with my hand for a moment, collecting myself. Then, with a great sigh, I pulled out my pocket-watch. “Time of death occurred at 2:44pm.”
Inspector Hopkins pulled the duvet over the poor woman’s rigid features. Holmes handed me my hat and firmly led me out of the room.
#
We did not speak until we were in the trap traveling back to town.
“A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one,” Holmes remarked. He watched me carefully as he spoke. “It hinged on the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution.”
I nodded, listening abstractly.
“Watson?”
Holmes rose from where he was sitting, across from me, and moved to sit beside me. I looked at the driver, but he appeared completely unaware of our change of positions. Holmes took his lap rug and draped it over both of us.
“It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them.”
Holmes desperately loved to recount all his cleverness after the conclusion of the case. And usually I was in an equal mood to take notes for my next published account.
However, the woman’s death had once again plunged me into reckless darkness. I despised watching death, and despised even more my own intolerance for it. I needed to be a stronger man than I was, a man like Holmes, who could witness such a scene, process it, and be done with it.
“… By upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly from the traces upon the cigarette ash…”
Even now, Holmes rambled on about his brilliant reasoning, without a moment to spare to the fact that we had just watched a woman take her last breath on earth.
“…I was forced, therefore, to seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained within the house…” Holmes rambled on, and I nodded politely at the right moments, resting my head in my hand and staring at the graying afternoon countryside.
“I ascertained in your presence, Watson, without your quite perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram’s consumption of food had increased, and… you are not listening to me at all. It is decidedly annoying.”
“Hm?” I gave him a weak smile. “Go on, Holmes. Increased consumption of food. I heard you.”

“For God’s sake, what is the matter?” Holmes narrowed his eyes at me. He tilted his head slightly, bringing his lips closer to my ear. “Are you still angry at my behavior towards the housekeeper? If so, I assure you my dear, that—“
“—Never mind that, Holmes,” said I.
“What then?” he asked, exasperated.
I sighed again. “Does it not bother you that she is dead?”
Holmes’ eyes widened in surprise. “You are upset about her? She was a murderer.”
“An unintentional murderer.”
“She took a life, nevertheless. She paid for it with her own.”
“So as far as you are concerned, the matter is resolved.” I tried to keep the frustration from my voice, but it was difficult. My words were delivered pinched and angry. Holmes, who knew every nuance of my behavior, read my frustration easily.
He sat back and stared at me, as though I were a new puzzle to solve. “What has gotten into you, my dear fellow? You are truly upset.” Under the lap rug, I felt Holmes’ cold fingers snake over my thigh and squeeze affectionately. “Why has this disturbed you so?”
“It is not the murder,” said I. “It is not even the guilt or lack of guilt. I simply… I feel quite helpless when someone dies and I cannot prevent it.”
Saying the words made me sound foolish and naive. I withdrew from Holmes’ hand and curled away from him, scowling at the lovely English countryside, embarrassed beyond all reason.
Holmes did not say a word. He snaked his hand under the lap rug once more, and gave my thigh another squeeze. When I did not react, he scooted even closer, putting his left arm around my shoulder. I narrowed my eyes at the driver, hoping Holmes would catch my meaning and back away, for fear of scandal.
But Holmes seemed completely unconcerned about what the trap driver thought of our intentions. To my surprise Holmes leaned his head against my shoulder. It was safe, affectionate, and for a moment I felt precariously on the verge of tears.
But as we pulled close to the station Holmes straightened, creating some distance between us without separating from me altogether.
“It seems we all have our weaknesses,” he stated finally. “Yours happens to be your inability to cope with mortality, Watson.”
“Oh? And what is yours?”
“You know mine.”
“What?”
“You,” said Holmes.
“I dislike being considered a weakness.”
“And yet you are.” His mouth quirked into a brief smile. “You are my primary distraction, my inevitable downfall. There is not a night that goes by that my slumber is not disturbed by thoughts of losing you. You have become more precious to me than all other things in this world, and it is a precarious need, because as you fear, my dear Watson, you are mortal. And if anything were to happen to you…”
The trap stopped at the gates of the train station. I wanted the moment to last longer. It was the closest Holmes had ever come to an emotional confession of love, and now the moment was at an end.
Without another word on the matter, Holmes quickly stood and stretched. He bounded out of the trap and paid the driver. I bumbled my way after him, my joints less limber. As we approached the train ticket booth, however, I tried urging him back to our conversation.
“What are you saying, Holmes?” I inquired. “Without me, you would be lost?” I smiled slightly.
Holmes fluttered his hand to dismiss the topic. “Enough said on the matter. Weaknesses are not fit conversation on a day as dreary as this. What say you to an evening out at Marcini’s to celebrate a successful conclusion of this case? Following, of course, our task of stopping at the Russian Embassy to fulfill the lady’s dying wish.”
“That would be lovely.”
“It is settled, then.” Holmes’ small smile returned, and he boarded the train with a spring in his step.
I followed. My weakness, my fear of death, was not lessened. Holmes would never quite understand my hatred of death, nor would he ascertain the more subtle emotions infused in my reactions. I would have to learn to live with this, as I would have to accept the fact that, as long as I continued on as Holmes’ partner and as a medical man, I would more than likely witness death take souls from my hands time and time again.
But if someone as emotionally-distant, independent, and calculating as Holmes could learn to live with his weakness, live with his attachment to another human being for companionship and affection, then I too could learn to live with mine.

THE END
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Weaknesses