The room to which we'd been assigned was in the topmost tower of an old country house, set far back against the chilly landscape of the Yorkshire dales. The building itself had at one time been a castle, or a keep of sorts; the ancestral home of the Earl of Lindley.
"Holmes." I laid my case on the crisp white coverlet. "We have a problem."
"What is it, Watson?" He emerged from the lavatory, shrugging out of his coat. "Is this room not to your liking?"
"There's only one bed." As if he hadn't noticed--as if he needed me to point out the obvious to him.
"Ah. Yes, there is indeed." He smiled. "Well, Watson, which side do you prefer? I would rather sleep away from that window if you don't mind, so perhaps you can take that side?"
"Are you proposing that we sleep in the same bed?" I was horrified--alright, I pretended to be horrified. Truthfully, I was wondering if he slept in a nightshirt or if he preferred to sleep in nothing but his own unblemished skin. I imagined curling into his warm body, early in the morning, before it was light... I imagined pressing my mouth against the pulse at the base of his throat. 'You mustn't touch me,' he'd said on the train, 'Not now, not ever.'
"Well surely, Watson, we cannot strain the hospitality of this fine household by declaring our billet to be unsatisfactory." He stared at me, hands on his hips. "We are both grown men, I am certain it will not be a difficulty."
"That butler," I said, indicating the slim, dour man who had shown us to our room. "He told me that the Earl keeps certain sections of the house closed."
"Those are the rooms occupied by his late wife." Holmes was taking things out of his suitcase, laying stacks of immaculate shirts on the bed. "I imagine that the strain of her recent demise is such that he cannot bear to be reminded of it."
"So we sleep in the same bed like schoolboys."
"Watson--" He was beginning to become annoyed with me. "I assure you, I do not bite!"
The atmosphere at supper was strained. Holmes, as usual, ate very little, but sat in a moody silence, smoking cigarette after cigarette and staring into the flames of the fireplace. The Earl of Lindley was a middle-aged man of a military bearing, rather stout throughout the middle, and with the high colouring that those of my profession often associate with heightened blood pressure. He spoke very little during the meal, and I was obliged to make conversation with the lady to my immediate right.
"I told Uncle that I didn't like pheasant, but he makes Cook prepare it anyway, whenever we have guests." She was plump and dark-haired, and blushed prettily. "And when I'd heard that you and Mr. Holmes were coming, I was ever so pleased, wasn't I, Uncle?" She nodded towards the Earl, who ignored her. "Mister Holmes--" She leaned across me to address him. "--I've read all about you in the newspapers. You're ever so brilliant, even Uncle says so!"
Holmes nodded, smiled slightly, but even I could see that his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Marjorie." The Earl glared at her, and something in his gaze caused the colour to fade from her cheeks. She sat back and spooned her soup moodily, splashing a little on the sleeve of my dinner jacket.
"You never let me speak at dinner," she said.
"Marjorie, that will do." The Earl leaned and called to the butler. "Higgins, take Marjorie's plate, I do believe she is finished." The soup was whisked away, along with the remainder of Majorie's utensils, and her half-emptied wine glass. "You may leave the table, Marjorie."
"But I wasn't finished--"
"You will leave the table!"
I started, dropped my napkin on the floor. As I bent to pick it up, Holmes's foot lashed out and kicked me gently: a warning.
I straightened, cast him a glance. His eyelids lowered briefly; a signal.
The young woman, Marjorie, was gazing at her uncle with something very like malice as she was escorted away. The elderly butler kept a tight grip on her arm, his gloved fingers holding her in an unbreakable grasp.
"Your Grace." Holmes had spoken for the first time that evening. "I fear that your young niece has departed without her feather fan." He held it before him, his long fingers fanned about the base of it. "Rather fetching, don't you think, Watson?" He drew deeply on his cigarette and gazed at me, a long, searching glance. "Peacock feathers."
The Earl's face was as white as plaster. Abruptly, he arose and left the dining room, so quickly that his chair overturned behind him and lay, legs-up, like a slain beast.
Holmes and I were left alone. He stubbed out his cigarette, drained his wine-glass and poured another hefty dose from the bottle. It was more than half-empty, and Holmes had drunk most of it himself. I wondered how drunk he was becoming, seeing as how the wine had been consumed on an empty stomach. But, Holmes has an iron-clad constitution. I have never seen him drunk. "A feather fan, Watson. Peacock feathers."
I nodded, sipped from my own glass. "Did you notice the Earl's reaction?" It had been hard to miss. "And young Marjorie, what do you make of her, Holmes?"
He laid a finger against his lips. The elderly butler had re-entered the room, moved to right the Earl's chair without a word. He took my plate, reached for the wine bottle, but Holmes grabbed it and clutched it against his chest possessively. "Not quite finished with that, my good man." He flapped a hand in the butler's direction. "You may go."
I snickered, amused by Holmes's imperious manner as much as the butler's shocked reaction. "Will that be all, sir?"
Holmes flickered a glance at me. "Quite." He waited till the butler had gone. "Come, Watson. We must retire to our room and decide what course of action to take." He tugged on the ends of his blanket, freed it from where it had become entangled around the legs of his chair. It was an incongruous wardrobe choice, to say the least: Holmes in white tie and cutaway coat, his pinstriped trousers impeccable as always, with that ratty blanket about his shoulders. Certainly, he had complained that the house was cold, but still...
"Your suspicions doubtless rest with the Earl of Lindley, do they not, Watson?"
We were drinking the rest of the wine in our room; Holmes was stretched full-length on the bed, the bottle clutched against his side, his wine-glass resting on his flat stomach. I couldn't relax, but had taken to pacing the length of the room, smoking a cigarette.
"Do stop pacing, Watson!" He shook the bottle at me, so that its meagre contents sloshed. "Come and tell me what you think of this." His fingers fumbled at his tie; he was half-drunk and clumsy, unable to extricate himself from the stiff formality of his evening clothes.
"Let me." I slipped the knot free, untied his tie and laid it on the bedside table. I sat beside him, gazing down at him. Holmes is very handsome in any guise; in evening clothes, he is damn well astonishing. "There, isn't that better?"
He smiled, reached up and laid his hand against the side of my face. "Much." His fingers were warm, burning their imprint into my skin. I was aware of my accelerated heartbeat, hammering in my chest, and I turned my face and touched my lips to his palm. The door was locked; we were all alone with each other.
He didn't draw away from me, but curved his hand against my mouth, and something kindled in his eyes. "Dear Watson..."
"Don't be afraid of me," I whispered. I gently took the wine bottle from him and laid it on the table, along with his empty glass. Then I came and sat next to him again, leaned forward and clasped his face in my hands.
He was trembling; he was very afraid, but trying to master it, as he had always done--master it, so that it wouldn't devour him. I touched my lips to his forehead, very gently, lest I frighten him with this overt show of affection. His eyes fluttered closed and he strained towards me, his long body bent into a bow. "One bed, Watson, one bedroom with a door that locks..."
"What are you saying, Holmes?" I traced his sensitive, sculpted mouth with my fingertip, then bent and kissed him: a mere flutter of my lips against his. I held him, our foreheads pressed together, and breathed in the delicious scent of him, elusive and primal.
"You defended me to Patrick Smythe when he accused me of certain things..." His eyes were hazy, whether from the wine or from desire, I couldn't tell for sure. His long fingers caressed my face. "Thank you."
"You'd do the same for me."
"Yes. Yes, I would, Watson." His fingers curled around the back of my neck and pulled my face to his; his eager mouth opened over mine and I sank into his embrace.
He felt like caged fire, his mouth burning hot but infinitely gentle; his tongue was a flicker of light. I drew away from him for just a second; moved to draw the blinds. As I turned back towards the bed I was enfolded in a hug, drawn back against his body, his chin digging into my shoulder. I could feel his hard body pressing into my back, the heat of him, burning itself into me. I sighed, relaxed against him, felt his arms go around my waist, his mouth flickering heat against my neck. He stepped backwards and we collapsed on the bed, Holmes flat on his back, me lying on top of him. I kissed him again, a long, deep kiss that pierced fire to the marrow of my bones... I could feel the insistent bulge of his desire, hard against my belly. I had to get him out of these clothes, but it had to be done gently, so as not to frighten him.
I moved off the bed and began quietly to disrobe, discarding my dinner jacket, my shirt and tie, slipping out of my shoes and socks, easing my trousers past my hips... I sat on the bed in my underwear, laid my palm against Holmes's flat stomach, leaned and kissed him again. "Watson, you should know--"
"What is it?" I unbuttoned his shirt slowly, bent and kissed the place each button had been, drew the shirt back so that his chest was bare. He was beautiful: lean and muscular, his chest dusted with dark hairs. I flicked his nipples with my tongue, smiled to see him gasp and arch towards me.
"I have never done this before."
"With another man?" I chuckled softly. "My dear fellow, neither have I." I traced his lips, kissed him gently.
"No, Watson--with anyone." His fingers wrapped themselves around my wrists.
"It's alright," I soothed him. "Just do whatever feels right for you." He was so beautiful, and so very vulnerable, lying there... I was filled with an agony of tenderness. "I'm not going to force you to do anything that's not to your liking." He sat up, and I tugged his shirt off, tossed it onto a nearby chair. "But I do hope this will be very much to your liking, Holmes."
He was as beautiful naked as I had imagined ... long and lean, his body taut with muscle ... powerful thighs and an impossibly flat stomach, broad shoulders, exquisitely curved buttocks and graceful hands and feet. I lay for a long time kissing him, our kisses growing ever more deep and frantic, our lips wet with each others' moisture. I kissed his elegant neck, biting and sucking him until I left vivid blue marks, and on his shoulders, a line of love bites... I sucked his nipples until he begged me to stop, and then I slid down and parted his thighs...
"What are you doing?" His long fingers were tangled in my hair, his voice a rough whisper. Oh, he was enjoying this, and I was glad.
"Shh... I'm not going to hurt you." I nudged his thighs apart and swirled my tongue against the smooth skin, high up where the leg connected to his body.
"Watson, if you bite my cock I'll kill you." I could hear the laughter in his voice, bubbling just under the surface.
"Shh..." I took his balls into my mouth, one at a time and sucked them gently... I have no idea where I'd learned this; I suppose it was purely an instinctual response to so much beauty sprawled elegantly beside me. I moved to kiss each hip, then bent and flicked my tongue quickly over the swollen cock-head.
"Oh, God--" He gasped, a deep in-breath.
"Are you alright?"
"Don't stop, for God's sake, whatever you do, don't stop--"
I took his erection completely into my mouth, swirling my tongue around him and pulling back, working his cock. He arched his back and drove himself into me, his fingers digging into my scalp. I felt his hand go to the back of my neck, holding me against his body, as he uttered a wordless cry and climaxed, shooting hot streams down my throat. I swallowed it all, then cleaned him completely, caressing his cock gently as I went.
When I slid up to lie next to him, he was smiling. "Was that what I was supposed to do?" he asked, sleepily.
"Precisely."
He ran his fingers through my hair. "What does it taste like, Watson?"
I kissed him deeply. "Like this."
"Mmm..." He stretched, clasped me in his arms. "Do you think I might do such a thing?"
Careful, I thought. No need to pressure him. Even though the pounding lust in my own groin was enough to drive me mad. "If you like."
He was clumsy, over-eager in his desire to please me, and once or twice I had to bite back a cry of pain as his teeth scraped my skin. But after a moment or so he understood what he was to do, and set about his task most efficiently. His tongue, a hot flickering fire, danced around the head of my cock, and all I could think about was this: this enormous pleasure that he was giving me, the caress of his wise mouth, the lean length of him, stretched in the bed...
I tried to hold back as long as I could, spin it out, but it was impossible. I wanted him so, I loved him, and this was more than my tortured nerves could take. I gasped, arched towards him and spent myself in long, shivering bursts, crying out. Holmes slid up and silenced me by laying his mouth over mine, driving the taste of myself deep into my throat.
Everything slowly resolved back to normal. I was lying in his arms, lying across his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. I leaned up on my elbow and gazed down at him. "You know I love you."
He smiled, a wonderful smile. "I love you, as well." His brow furrowed for an instant. "Did I hurt you? I thought I heard you--"
"It's alright," I said quickly. "No, it was far more than merely alright," I assured him. I felt as if I might weep, suddenly. "I do love you." It wasn't enough. There should be greater words than this, I thought.
"John." He drew me into his embrace, pulled the covers over us, enfolding me in warmth. His lean body seemed to give off a heat of its own, burning into my skin. "You ... you knew I wanted this."
"No, I didn't," I replied, astonished. "I've been hiding my feelings for months, Holmes--pretending that I didn't feel such--no, I didn't expect it, or even know that you wanted it."
"You love me."
"Of course I do." I wanted to make vows to him; it wasn't enough to merely say it. I wanted to make him mine, forever.
"There is still the matter of the murder." He was becoming sleepy, folding down within himself.
"Yes."
"That peacock fan, Watson, that--" He paused to indulge in a huge yawn.
"Go to sleep, Holmes."
Falling into sleep, I thought I heard a door opening and closing, but I could not be sure. I turned into Holmes's embrace and slept the sleep of the just.