Sherlock Holmes crossed the sitting room of 221B Baker Street in his dressing-gown with a slow step that in any other person could have been called absentmindedness. Picked up the slightly crumpled copy of The Times, lying abandoned on the dinner table, glanced over it in bored impatience, and then cast his gaze toward the stair which led up to the bedroom of his friend and confidant.
"Watson?" he called out for the third time. "Watson, are you there?" No reply. Really, it was most vexing. According to Mrs. Hudson the good doctor had not stirred out of doors to-day, but neither would he answer Holmes's calls for company. What had got his friend in such a snit? Holmes could remember last evening in perfect detail but could find nothing so offensive in his behaviour that would warrant Watson's stubborn silence.
"Very well, then," he muttered, in extreme ill-humour as he headed for his desk and well aware that he sounded like a pouting child. "Stay up there! Starve for all I care. Miss lunch."
And as he seated himself at his desk, preparing to read through his untidy stack of letters and enjoy the sun coming in on his back, he felt two strong hands grasp his legs by the calves. Before he could rocket out of his seat with an outraged shout and reach for his revolver, however, the warm, familiar odor of Arcadia tobacco reached his nostrils and told him quite clearly who it was; a tender squeeze of his calves a second later confirmed it.
"Watson," Holmes asked with his best attempt at patience, "what can you be doing under my desk?"
"Sitting, my dear fellow," floated up that well-known voice. "Rather uncomfortably, I might add."
"Really. And how long, may I ask, have you been 'sitting' there?"
"Twenty minutes, I should think."
"You shall surely have a terrible cramp; and you shall deserve it. But what do you mean by it?"
Soft laughter then. "Can it be true?" Watson mused from his hiding-place. "Have I baffled the mighty Sherlock Holmes?"
"You baffle me from day to day, my dear Watson. Now be so good as to tell me what on earth you are--"
The hands, though not loosening their tender grip, slid from Holmes's calves up to the inside of his thighs, and began to massage with what could only be called intent. "I was waiting for you," Watson murmured. "Hm, not a thing on under this..." It was true. Holmes remembered abruptly that he was quite naked under the dressing-gown.
"Watson," he began, but stopped, mortified, when it came out as a hoarse rasp.
"And as for missing lunch," Watson continued amiably, planting a soft, hot kiss on the inside of one knee, "I intend no such thing." The voice dropped to a purr that made sweat break out on Holmes's back. "My favorite delicacy is right here..."
"My dearest Watson, I really do have all this correspondence--aahh!"
It had begun, as it always did, with one of his testicles being drawn in tenderly to Watson's mouth as the other was tickled by his lover's moustache; guaranteed to drive Holmes to idiocy within a matter of moments, Watson now used this particular maneuver to silence his lover from protesting. Slumping back in his chair, mouth wide open and gasping, the detective reflected on the unfairness of it all. He had so much to do, and Watson--good God, what that man could do with his tongue--should know it. There had been a letter in just last night from Calais imploring his help, and he was most inclined to--to--heavens...
Oh, to the devil with it. Allowing a most undignified whimper to escape his mouth, Holmes shifted on his chair and spread his legs wider, the better to enjoy the feel of Watson's tongue laving gently at the very base of his penis. "Good," he managed, earning a soft puff of air on moistened skin as Watson chuckled.
The tormenting tongue continued dancing slowly up the length, just the way he enjoyed most, and by the time Watson's moist lips slid over the crown and began to suck gently Holmes was almost aching with pleasure. He combed shaking fingers through his lover's hair.
A knock came at the door, and he jerked his hands away.
"Mr. Holmes?" came Mrs. Hudson's soft tones. "Will you be wanting your lunch now?"
Holmes opened his mouth to reply and, to his horror, found all he could do was croak. It was apparently enough to alarm the good Mrs. Hudson, for the door began to slide open. "Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes nudged Watson sharply with his right foot as their landlady poked her gray head around the door. Surely his friend wouldn't be mad enough to...
"Mr. Holmes, are you all right? You look quite red. Have you got a fever?"
Holmes cleared his throat and found, to his utter relief, that he could speak, if a bit stiltedly. "Ah...no, Mrs. Hudson. I merely find it a bit warm in the room."
She glanced around the quite-cool room as if attempting to discern the source of this heat, doubt written clearly on her face. "You do?"
"Yes. In fact I agh!" was his next sentence. For Watson, that terrible, wicked, dreadful man had, after a few seconds of tactful inactivity, resumed gently nuzzling Holmes's testicles, and then licking gently once again at the ponderous erection. Horrified, Holmes could feel the slow trail of pre-ejaculate making its way down his member. If Watson continued, he'd come--there was no way he could possibly hide that--
"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson cried in alarm. "Whatever is the matter?"
"Cramp," Holmes managed, rubbing at his arm most unconvincingly. "I've been writing, you see, and after a certain...amount of time the...dear God, the arm begins to...feel pain."
"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically. Then, quizzically, "I thought you were right-handed, Mr. Holmes?"
He was rubbing his left arm. He'd picked the wrong damned arm-- "I am attempting to...improve my ambidextrousness. Being able to write with more than one hand--that is to say, rather, with both--is an asset to any detective," he added with a trace of his old imperiousness, and rather proud of it too. "But it puts a strain on my arm--oh!" Great God, Watson had begun to apply just the tip of his tongue to the spot right underneath the head, and for a moment Holmes was afraid he would actually scream.
"You must call for Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson cried, beginning to look most upset. "Really, you must."
"I doubt very much," Holmes said through clenched teeth, "that Dr. Watson would be able to help me in this particular instance." He got a sharp nip on his thigh for that, and for an instant was perilously close to climaxing in front of his landlady. "It's just a cramp in the arm, Mrs. Hudson. I promise you, it is. You, ah, mentioned lunch?" he added somewhat desperately.
She blinked, and then shook her head. "Lunch? Oh my, yes. If you're certain you're all right."
"Quite certain. Could you have it brought up in...ah, half an hour?"
"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Of course. But do promise me that if you are in further pain you will call Dr. Watson--I can't imagine where he's got to this morning--"
"It is a promise," Holmes managed in a fairly normal tone of voice, and almost groaned in relief when the door closed behind her. Then he expostulated in a low voice, "What the devil were you thinking--"
"Hush," Watson hissed, and before he could protest, Holmes found himself being sucked down, down into that hot, soft throat.
Reacting quickly, Holmes bent his head down onto his desk over his folded arms and bit his sleeve to keep from crying out. When the sound of Mrs. Hudson's footsteps had receded sufficiently down the stair, he permitted himself to loose the material from between his teeth and sob into the papers covering his desk. "Wuh...Wats..."
Watson began to hum, and the vibrations made the detective writhe frantically before two iron hands pinned him in his chair. Suddenly desperate to make this pleasure last, Holmes tried to turn his mind from what was happening, to think of other things. He was wholly unsuccessful. All he could think of was...he could not think.
Six months. Six months and four days of being John Watson's lover, and the ecstasy of lovemaking still astonished him. He could not understand it, could not categorize or explain it. He only knew that being penetrated by his dearest friend and love was a pleasure unequaled by anything save the most stimulating case. He only knew that he could quite happily spend hours kissing those lips and doing little else. He only knew that laving one of Watson's brown nipples--the right one--with his tongue, and then nipping the tip, made his friend shudder and moan as if dying--
It was that thought, interestingly enough, which pushed him over the edge.
He screamed hoarsely into the crook of his elbow, effectively muffling the sound, as his hips twitched uncontrollably while he spent himself. This was another thing he could never understand--this orgasm. Aside from the strange and sticky dreams of his adolescence he had been wholly unacquainted with the phenomenon, until the night Watson took him in one warm, firm hand and stroked his every capacity for reason away. He could not think during climax. He had no control over himself, or anything else, and the sheer power of it terrified him.
But at last he understood why people were willing to kill each other for this...
Eventually his mad shuddering stopped, and he found he could exhale without moaning. Watson continued to suck, but gently now, until even that became too much and Holmes had to shift back with a soft hiss. "Good God..."
"I have never merited such a title before," Watson's voice said with amusement, and then there was a soft slurping sound; he must be licking his lips.
"Get up here at once," Holmes growled, and scooted his chair back, covering himself belatedly with the dressing-gown.
"Shut the curtains first, my dear fellow. I've no doubt the good people below would be rather shocked if they looked up and saw me climb into your lap or..."
With a muttered curse, more at his own lack of foresight than at Watson's teasing, Holmes reached behind himself and tugged the curtain shut. Then his lover crawled out from under the desk, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling ruefully. "A terrible cramp describes it quite well, you know," Watson said dryly. "I hope you appreciate my sacrifice."
"I should have appreciated it a great deal more if it had not taken place in front of our proprietress!"
Watson merely sat back on his heels on the floor and smiled. Holmes scowled at him. "Really, Watson, how could you have been so irresponsible? If I had..." his voice trailed off and he actually blushed.
"I am not in the least irresponsible," the doctor said mildly. His eyes then darkened to a more wicked shade that made Holmes catch his breath, in spite of his post-climactic languor. "You would not have come," Watson said softly. "I would not have permitted it."
Holmes could feel his fingers clench nervously on the arms of the chair. "You control my body so well, then?"
"Oh, yes," Watson breathed, and then gave his friend a blindingly lovely smile. "Every handsome inch of it, my dear."
"We shall see," Holmes said as smoothly as he could, glancing over at the clock on the mantle. "We now have approximately twenty-five minutes before Mrs. Hudson arrives with lunch--for me, not for you, you devil, since you at least had the wit not to make your presence known. Perhaps you would care to test your hypothesis in the interim?"
"It is no hypothesis," Watson replied promptly, "but a proven fact; however, if you insist on experimentation, I have long been curious about the tactile properties of our bearskin rug."
The bearskin rug. Holmes felt his mental faculties take another alarming dip, along with his stomach. "An intriguing idea," he muttered. Oh, Watson, what have you done to me...?
"I do have them on occasion, don't I?" Without waiting for a reply, Watson took his lover's hand and dragged him over to the fireplace. "We must be exceedingly quiet..."
"I am quite capable of being exceedingly quiet, as well you know."
"Oh, certainly! But if worst comes to worst I suppose you could always bite your sleeve."
He stopped Holmes's outraged exclamation with a kiss--and then, as was his wont, with other things.