I often take what Watson calls an "abnormal, perverse pleasure" in my investigations, allowing them to eclipse all other priorities, such as eating and sleeping. I do not deny this fact, of course, when Watson complains of it, but I merely reply that such priorities are irrelevant to me whenever I have a case. His look of indignation at the term "irrelevant" amuses me, so that I do not mind much having to listen to him lecture to me about my welfare.

Yet Watson is persistent, so on one occasion, I decided to elaborate on my response. How "perverse" could my behaviour be, I asked, if many men could also be distracted from the trivialities of mere survival when the stimulus was sufficient? Indeed, I told him that the heightened thrill of solving a baffling mystery or of capturing a dangerous criminal is akin to the ecstasy that most men feel during sexual passion.

Hearing me describe my satisfaction this way, Watson protested that I exaggerated, but I reminded him that I never exaggerate nor underestimate, preferring to always remain precisely accurate. I added that, because I enjoyed such gratifying moments in my profession, I therefore had no need to rely on mere amorous liaisons for fulfilment.

Watson, whose own amorous heart is accustomed to being enthralled by the fair sex, furrowed his brows at me and sat speechless. He stared at me a moment, then glanced away, deep in thought. No doubt, he was remembering the many times when I had concluded a case, only to collapse limply upon our sitting-room sofa or my bed, sapped of all energy or interest in the world until my next case arrived. Clearly Watson looked on me now, more than ever, as a peculiar creature unlike all other men he had known.

He had obviously never thought of my "perverse" pleasure in quite those terms before, but I believe that Watson always knew, if only in the imprecise, empathetic way that he senses all my moods and adapts to them. And despite Watson's peevish complaints about my priorities in life, it is clear that he too enjoys becoming absorbed in my cases. Though I doubt that he feels such rarefied mental exaltation as I do, he nevertheless seems strongly affected by sharing my cases with me. In his writings, he describes many a climactic scene of a mystery as if it were some exhilarating hunt of deadly predator after its prey. I deplore Watson's romanticism on most occasions, but I find this imagery, at least, to be vivid and appropriate.

How intriguing that he should select such dynamic, visceral terms to portray my "sport", thereby rendering my abstract intellectual pleasure into a concrete idea that other men might understand! There is something almost primitively raw and masculine in Watson, and that may be why I first began taking a perverse pleasure in him.

Nor did my fixation prove to be one-sided. It grew evident as our friendship deepened that Watson was aware of the unspoken, inexorable attraction between us, and he visibly registered every strained glance and tense breath that we shared during our hushed vigils accompanied by Scotland Yard.

That Watson had grown so perceptive and observant, made him all the more attractive to me. I found that I desired him with an intensity quite foreign to me, and whether I could not or would not reason myself into abandoning that desire, I cannot say for certain. All I know is that the distraction from my brainwork proved so intractable, that I knew I could no longer endure in silence.

So one night as Watson and I lingered with our after-dinner brandies in our sitting-room, I finally made my irrevocable offer in a low but clear whisper. "Sleep with me."

He swallowed, then replied, "Your room."

We instantly departed, locking the door behind us and taking our drinks with us into my bedroom. I secured my own door too, while Watson stealthily drew the curtains over the windows. Then I lit my lamp, adjusting its illumination just bright enough that I might read his eyes.

He drank down his glass in one gulp and set it upon my night-stand, watching me as I did the same.

Then we stood there together, meeting each other's gaze in silence until I could hear his uneven breath and see the flush in his face. He pulled me near suddenly and kissed me, exploring my mouth boldly. We slid our arms around each other, embracing intimately and kissing for several minutes. How odd that I found his moustache and his late-evening stubble amusingly prickly rather than off-putting. Our hands next strayed into each other's clothes, soon proceeding to untie knots and unfasten buttons.

I led us toward my bed, where we paused to discard our shoes and socks before helping one another undress further. I permitted Watson to lay me down while we embraced, clad in only our dishevelled shirts and trousers. His desirous shaft stirred against me, not far from my own, and I found the sensation provocative.

After I rendered him breathless with another kiss, Watson met my eyes again. "You kiss... incredibly," he whispered. "Where did you learn to do this so well?"

I arched an eyebrow at him and smiled, amused by his surprise. "Oh, there are girls enough who are willing to teach a fellow if he is apt to learn--as you surely know, my dear Watson." My fingers fondly teased the edge of his moustache.

He blushed momentarily to be reminded of the ladies that I had seen him woo, but he clasped my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers with a warmth that suggested that he would rather be here with me than with any woman. Such gentlemanly courtesy is just one of Watson's many charms.

Despite my further invitations and intrusions into his own clothing, he as yet remained shy to some extent and was hesitant to expose my whole nudity. He kept wanting to talk. "I always thought that you were indifferent to the fair sex, Holmes," he said pensively, apparently puzzled by my last remark.

"Certainly," I answered. "But surely you don't think that I chose to be celibate without first sampling what possible pleasures I would be denying myself?"

"I suppose not," he shrugged. Then he asked me, hesitating against prying, "Did you experiment with both sexes, Holmes?"

I shook my head. "I admit that I was appallingly conventional at the time, only investigating women. As for experiments with men, what do you think this is?"

Watson cocked his head, peering at me with furrowed brows again.

Realising that I had offended him, I sat up with attempted dignity and cleared my throat. "If you would rather not participate in this experiment with me, I shall understand."

He frowned sourly, "Ah, rational as always, Holmes. You'll find yourself some other convenient man to experiment with. One would think you had no feeling for me whatsoever."

He vexed me, and I took hold of his shoulders, making him face me. "If I had no feeling for you, Watson, do you think I would casually risk my career, my reputation, my being discovered by one of those Scotland Yard blunderers, merely to satisfy my curiosity?"

Such visible expression of my emotion pleased Watson, and he smiled at me, sliding his arms back around my waist. "Then I am irresistible to you?" he chuckled.

I nodded reluctantly, unaccustomed to being disarmed by anyone's charm.

He lay me back down, now opening my shirt and kissing my throat. I reached to bare his own chest too, soon casting off his crisp white shirt with the rest of the clothes that we had strewn my bedroom floor with.

Watson possesses an infinitely interesting body. The scar of his shoulder wound does not mar his appearance so much as it gives him character. With his usual modesty, he never makes much of his injury, and ever since I deduced its existence when we first met, I have noticed that he strives to hide or draw less attention to it, resulting unfortunately in a periodic spasm in his leg in compensation. (He should not be so self-conscious.)

I do not have a fetish about military heroes like some persons whom I have observed shamelessly fawning over soldiers; in fact I despise the regimentation of the armed forces in principle. Yet with Watson there is the element of noble duty and self-sacrifice to one's country, and I find myself strangely susceptible to him. Perhaps it is due to his years of noble duty and self-sacrifice to me.

Watson gasped with appreciable pleasure as I kissed, stroked, and gently bit into the healed-over flesh surrounding his injury. He nipped me in return and pinched my forearm, scarred by the needle marks. I paused to ask him if he objected to sleeping with a so-called drug addict.

He replied breathlessly, "I shall burn for my perverse desire. How can I object? Still, I wish that you wouldn't, if only for your health, and not for me."

"Persuade me later," I hushed him, capturing his mouth in another kiss.

I could tell that it had been some time since Watson had been with a woman, for he was so desperate for my every touch. He did not protest at all when I slid off his trousers, then his undergarments, although he remained hesitant to do the same for me.

"What's the matter?" I teased him. "Never resorted to a man before? Not even in the army?"

He frowned at me for a moment, but the momentary flicker in his eyes told me the truth.

"Aha!" I chuckled knowingly. "Murray, was it?"

He blushed and stammered defensively, "No, no! No, Holmes, it was not like that at all! Most of our regiment had been massacred at Maiwand, you see, and Murray had feared that my own wound would be fatal too. When I regained consciousness in hospital, he was so relieved that I was alive that he--he kissed me impulsively. The only witnesses, fortunately, were either unconscious or delirious with fever, so I just warned him to be less... physical and more verbal in demonstrating his emotions."

I smiled at his denial. "No doubt." Then I pulled my dear, innocent Watson closer into my arms. "I do not blame him for admiring a prize like yourself."

Watson still shook his head anxiously, insisting, "Nothing happened!"

"Of course not," I said, and fondly nibbled on Watson's ear to make him relax. "The question is, what do you wish to happen now?"

He watched my hands stray familiarly between his legs, coaxing them to part in a way that he was not at all accustomed to. He swallowed and pulled back from me, clearly out of his depths now.

I simply waited without a word as he breathed out slowly, regained the colour in his face, and then at last came near me again. Once he had resolved to do a thing, he would brave it.

I started to remove my own trousers, and he reached to assist me, so that soon we both lay there stark naked in my bed. He was quite curious in fact to see my body and to explore its contours, too. Though I was no woman, my form evidently did not displease or repulse him so much that he couldn't touch me. He sighed as I entangled our bodies, but did not close his eyes to imagine someone else.

So we rapturously crossed the line into deviance that night. To ward off any return of Watson's trepidation I told him how, in expectation of this night, I had consulted with an expert on deviant sex (whom I of course did not name).

Watson did not appear pleased or relieved to hear this, however.

I assured him, "It was a verbal consultation, not physical. I merely asked this expert practitioner for discreet advice so that I might avoid inflicting you with unnecessary clumsiness or pain due to our mutual inexperience. He certainly has too many secrets of his own, to dare endanger our own reputations."

"It is not the secrecy I worry about." Watson frowned and still seemed to resent my having the upper hand on him in this matter, but he became altogether more agreeable as I toyed with his responsive nipples.

It made Watson considerably eager to experiment with what he could do to me in return. We engaged in a heated duel of our bodies, happily without any insecurities that we might be emasculated somehow by our intimacy. He whispered, his voice so primitively raw and masculine, "This is how I imagine those sweaty Roman men made love after wrestling each other in the public baths." I wanted to pound him into my mattress.

Since Watson was a guest in my room, however, I afforded him the courtesy of the first salvo. A fair exchange of my body for his, and I must say that he excelled in creatively adapting to either position. One would think that he found me intoxicating, from the passion that he showed me. After my turn of ravishing him, I withdrew and smiled at the still hazy look of contentment in his eyes. "There, I have corrupted you."

Watson laughed softly, but said nothing. He watched me as I rose from the bed and retrieved my cigarette case and matches. (It being a special occasion, I judged the cigarettes to be more appropriate than our everyday pipes and cigars.) I offered him one and lit both cigarettes with the same match before shaking it out and seating myself next to Watson beneath the covers. Along with the tobacco, I could still taste his kisses in my mouth, and it proved to be an intriguing mixture for the senses.

It is an easy sort of calm that descends after a climax, mental or physical. The only trick is to not let myself fall into a black and weary mood of ennui.

"You don't fear a fire, smoking in bed?" Watson remarked after a time.

"I live for danger," I answered glibly.

We laughed, then Watson put out his cigarette and reached for me, wanting to kiss again. I let him do so, crushing my own cigarette into the ashtray and wondering vaguely if he could really desire another go so soon. Evidently, though, he merely wished to possess my mouth.

"Tell me," he asked between his lingering kisses, "why did you make an exception for me? Why indulge in frivolous intercourse, as it can only lead to a grievous distraction from your objectivity?" He chuckled with amusement.

I shrugged, seeing no need to defend my decisions. "There are times when I am grateful for any distraction."

He looked at me oddly for a moment, then his eyes glanced toward the needle marks upon my arm. "Yes, I know," he said.

As he had become far too serious, I grabbed him suddenly and tumbled him onto his back again. Our prior embraces had certainly affected him, for he faced me not only with a breathless, giddy surprise, but also a flush of arousal. Such is the keenness of his flesh.

I chuckled and lay against him, kissing his throat.

He sighed and pulled me ardently closer. Clearly Watson was weak to sensual touch--not a natural-born celibate by any means.

Feeling superior with my strength of will, I smiled and I teased him deliciously until he was gasping. "I am surprised that you ever let things grow so desperate that you would crave this experiment. You might have had any number of woman by now."

He shook his head. "My charms are not so great, nor women so easily won."

I highly doubted that, having glimpsed often enough the regard and open admiration that many of my female clients had for Watson.

He kissed me, then continued softly, "Besides, I wanted... this experiment."

"Indeed?"

He nodded and begged me to continue my exploration. So I parted his legs and lowered my head to his erection. (An apparently popular method, as I had learned from my discreet expert.) I knew myself to be imperfect in practising this oral technique, but I clearly gratified Watson all the same. He called out my name.

I had scarcely finished cleaning up the resultant mess with a towel when I found that Watson had dozed off inexcusably. After all, I had done the work. Nevertheless, as he lay there tranquilly, I found him easy to forgive, and willingly let him remain in my bed for the rest of the night. So far, this was an excellent experiment.

---

I woke Watson early the next morning, intending to hurry him out to his own bedroom, but he was in no rush to leave me. Indeed, Watson was flush with arousal again and persuaded me into having a frivolous morning tumble with him. Such departure from my long celibacy! Is all the world this unrelenting with sex, I wonder?

Though I enjoyed the brief indulgence, I finally told him he must go, insisting that he was wearing me out at this rate.

He laughed. "Nothing exhausts you but ennui, I thought." He kissed me before gathering up his clothes to leave, then stopped at the door. "I shall return tonight?"

"If you wish." I simply rolled over with a mock yawn.

He smiled and discreetly slipped out, leaving me alone. I remained in bed for some time contemplating the empty glasses upon my nightstand, the spent cigarettes, and the utter disarray of my bed. I am no tidy lodger, of course, but I ought to have demanded the use of his bedroom instead.

In any event, the new day's arrival had not extinguished my desire for him at all, and in fact it increased my curiosity to know what other depravities Watson might consent to engage in with me. A civilised, respectable doctor like himself letting me use him like some half-penny strumpet in Whitechapel--the thought of it was deliciously ironic, and convinced me how very desperate Watson must be for anyone's touch.

Considering Watson's healthy sexual appetite, it has long puzzled me why he has not more often indulged his clear interest in the fair sex, and their reciprocal interest in him. This latest stretch of several months' abstinence has puzzled me particularly, for I have observed him repeatedly abandoning his pursuit of a woman with sudden disinterest and coming home to Baker Street before having had so much as an intimate kiss, let alone a scandalous romp in bed. Some capricious mood has apparently struck him, so that he has become finicky in his choices and has refrained from indulging his passions with those usual objects of his admiration. Hence his willingness now to resort to experimentation with me, as a substitute for the fulfilment that he has long denied himself.

Yet what he had displayed during our lovemaking was not just willingness, but brazenness. He took a certain delight, I could tell, in pinning me to the bed and plundering me with a roughness that he would never have practised with any gentle female, so clearly he did not come to my bed merely in desperation for any lover. He may genuinely want me.

I wonder if he might even love me; the notion seems a natural enough possibility, considering his characteristic romanticism. Not that I truly comprehend love myself, especially romantic love. It remains an abstract concept to me, a motive for many a crime and scandal that I have encountered in my investigations. If he loved me, and if I loved him in return, what exactly would that mean between us? I have begun to understand what friendship means between us, but a deeper bond may mean something more imprecise and difficult. We shall see.