Beyond the Red Door
Doctor Watson was not unduly surprised when he discovered Sherlock Holmes’s secret. What confounded him was that it had taken him so long to realize that his best friend was an invert. “Blazingly obvious” was a phrase often used by the very man himself, when pointing out a bare fact or basic deduction that had escaped the good doctor. And now, looking back on the clues that resulted in his overdue epiphany, Watson had once again to admonish himself for his ignorance.
The total indifference to women should have been the first sign. For someone as astutely observant as Holmes to remain willfully oblivious to a woman’s beauty was decidedly curious. His late-night prowls into questionable establishments did not appear inconsistent with his line of work, but often times Holmes would return home at dawn without anything to contribute to the resolution of a case.
Sometimes he would disappear into the city for a week at a time, reporting later that he had taken up residence in one of his many small refuges in a different part of London. But there again, when no suspect or solution resulted from it, Watson wondered what was really behind his friend’s long absences.
It was not a single event that led to Watson’s final deduction, but the sum of these things suddenly presenting themselves in one inevitable conclusion. It was rainy night in Baker Street, and Watson was home alone. He was sorting through his stack of medical journals, and skimmed through an article on male sexual deviance. It was a subject of some interest to Watson, for he had known a fair number of inverts in his army days. Nothing about them had ever suggested they needed to be removed from society; in fact, Watson had found some of the kindest and most noble creatures among them, as fiercely loyal to the Crown as anyone else.
And so, when Holmes returned later that evening, Watson knew. It was as if the truth had walked through the door as sure as Holmes did, with a breezy smile and his usual dramatic flair for entering a room.
He’d no intentions of raising the point with Holmes, for he did not want to force his confidence. Of course, if anything ever threatened the great detective’s well-being, there were no lengths to which Watson would not go to keep him from scandal and disgrace.
But something else prevented the doctor from putting it to rest. It was a stirring within himself that shifted resolutely towards a more concrete urge every time his gaze rested upon his friend.
How had Holmes looked at the men he had been with? What did his hands look like, feel like, removing another’s clothing or grasping at another’s flesh? How did his sharp features register his pleasure, and how did his keen elastic voice resonate during a climax?
These questions kept Watson preoccupied through the next case. He was as intrigued as he was confused, and had no ideas on how or when or even whether he should proceed. And then Fate decided for him.
On the night Holmes instructed him to follow a suspect through the city, Watson had little inkling that he was about to cross his Rubicon.
“Follow him wherever he goes, Watson, and pray, do not lose sight of him,” Holmes had told him.
Watson followed the man through the weekend crowds that gathered in the streets of London, straight into the notorious Vere Street. He soon found himself inside a gentlemen’s club very much unlike those to which he was accustomed. He was admitted after having overheard the suspect utter a secret word, which he repeated in a low voice. He was then escorted through several empty rooms that finally led into a dimly lit chamber.
Men of all types were scattered about the place, drinking, conversing, laughing and smoking. Some were seated on one another’s laps. Others were dancing. Watson thought he spotted a few women on the premises until their deep, resonant voices betrayed their true identities.
Watson nearly lost sight of his suspect until he noticed him ascending a spiraling staircase, and he crossed the room after him. The second story was comprised of smaller chambers in a long, narrow hallway. Watson had seen the man enter through a single red door at the end of the hall. He waited a full minute before following him through it. The scene on the other side took his breath away.
It was crowded with male couples, in various states of undress, who were deeply ensconced in every stage of sexual activity. A kind of sensual pulse throbbed within the walls of the room as pairs of them moved and writhed and thrust together in their own rhythmic patterns. The din of groans and grunts accompanied the occasional slapping of flesh, the crack of a whip or the wanton holler of a release.
All of this swirled around Watson’s head as he gazed in disbelief at the shocking tableau before him. The faces of men openly giving one another such gratification was humiliating, disorienting and profoundly arousing.
The suspect had disappeared, but Watson’s innate sense of discretion stopped him here, so he left the premises and hurried back to Baker Street. On the cab ride home, he wrote down every one of the suspect’s movements that night, omitting not a single detail. When Holmes finally arrived home later, Watson scrutinized his face while the detective read over his notes.
“Well done, Watson,” was all he said before giving him a pat and seating himself at his chemistry. His reaction had been maddeningly inscrutable.
That night as he lied in bed, Watson brought himself to a blinding orgasm envisioning Holmes among the roomful of men at the club.
* * *
It was not unlike Watson to act before he spoke. That is not to say he often acted without thinking, per se, but rather that his physical responses often operated ahead of his wits. And that is precisely what happened on the night he finally confronted Holmes on the subject of his sexuality.
It was in a large, crowded room choked with the smoke and egos of a circle of men whose livelihoods were as dependent on these social gatherings as they were upon their knowledge of British law. It seemed ludicrous to Watson that he and Holmes should be here, but the invitation had been sincere. And, from the sly manner in which Holmes assured Watson that it would be to their advantage to attend, Watson correctly deduced that his friend had some professional motive for keeping a watchful eye on one or two of the attendees.
But Watson had eyes only for Holmes, who had never looked so debonair or gallant or handsome or desirable as he did that night. With one arm tucked regally behind his back, Holmes skulked about the room like a cat waiting for scraps of clues to be dropped in front of him. When he stopped to chat with someone, he betrayed no particular intention beyond social courtesy. He would tilt his head back and affect distant half-interest until a fact or suggestion of some import would cause his chin to drop and his smoky grey eyes to widen and shine like torches.
Watson had always admired Holmes, but tonight he was in perfect awe. He followed Holmes’s every movement until he was so overcome that he had to remove himself from the premises. He darted up a narrow staircase and shut himself into an empty bedroom at the top of the landing. He cupped his hand over his genitals and squeezed, growing harder against his palm as vividly erotic images flitted across his mind. His trousers were already at his knees when he heard a soft knock at the door.
“Watson? Are you in there?”
“Half a second, Holmes,” Watson said as he furiously hoisted his waistband and refastened his flies. He unlocked and opened the door.
“What are you doing in here, dear fellow? Are you ill?” Holmes asked as he stepped into the bedroom.
Watson sighed. It was time to confess what he knew, what he had seen and the profound effect it was having on him.
“Close the door, please, Holmes, and lock it. I’ve something I need to tell you.”
Holmes obliged. Watson took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak. But he took one look at Holmes standing in front of him, his beautiful moonstone eyes creased with curiosity and concern, and words entirely failed him.
Watson grabbed his lapels and crushed his lips over his mouth. He was momentarily startled by the warmth of Holmes’s lips, and how full and alive they felt upon his. Without letting up in the slightest, Watson pulled Holmes on top of him and they fell awkwardly onto the bed. Watson was kissing him far too hard to be able to discern whether or not Holmes was kissing him back. He was afraid that once he released his grip Holmes would push him away.
When Watson finally sealed the embrace with a firm smack, Holmes snapped back and stared at him. Watson was too far gone for a conversation, so with trembling hands he unfastened his trousers. Holmes looked down in astonishment at the rosy cockstand that bounced to life beneath him, and he raised his incredulous expression to Watson’s face. The doctor was nearly unrecognizable behind the wild flush that splashed across his cheeks and the raging desire that had overtaken his countenance.
“Please,” said Watson urgently.
Holmes stared at his friend’s arousal, his sharp mind whirling with a barrage of realizations and impressions. That Watson knew his secret occurred to him instantly, but for how long and to what extent he himself was inclined towards the male sex was not yet clear. All he knew was that honoring Watson’s request was the only possible course of action. The man was in such a state of arousal his entire body was shaking.
He bent his head down and fixed his mouth around Watson’s cock. He was at first hesitant, but Watson was immediately responsive, moaning and writhing lustfully underneath him as Holmes massaged him with a tightening embouchure.
Watson thought of all the men at the gentlemen’s club and the dashing figure of Holmes in his evening clothes. He dared himself to look down and take in the sight of Holmes pumping up and down over his manhood, his eyes tightly closed in concentration, his nostrils flared in his effort and his supple red lips moistened with the precursor to Watson’s release.
Watson was already hovering near the precipice when he started whispering husky words of encouragement. They soon gave way to lewd phrases articulating his wildest fantasies as the acts to which he had borne witness came tumbling out of him.
Holmes brought his hand to Watson’s sac and weaved his delicate fingers around it. With a hoarse cry, Watson began to cant his hips and clench his buttocks in anticipation of the great tide that was about to overwhelm all of his senses.
Holmes hadn’t any expectations of reciprocation, for he was certain that once Watson emerged from his haze of lust he would apologize and retreat from this realm that was so unknown to him. So he hastily released his own erection and began to stroke himself at a furious pace, his muted moans reverberating throughout Watson’s body as he rocked back and forth on his knees.
It was over for Watson in a matter of moments. He came so hard he choked on his final cry and dissolved inside the staccato exhale that was propelled in unending stream from his diaphragm.
Holmes increased his suction as Watson’s seed flooded his mouth, pulling and pulling every last thread of sensation from him with great determination. Muffled cries climbed higher up the back of his throat, well past Watson’s finish, until he felt the sweet spark igniting in his own stomach. His mouth fell open, dropping Watson’s softening cock and stretching into the suggestion of a scream as his voice cracked with the realization of his own climax.
Neither of them moved until the panting and tremors subsided. Holmes stood on shaking legs and righted his clothing after blotting himself dry with his handkerchief. Aghast at the unprecedented frenzy that had just taken place, he seated himself against the wall, drew up his knees and waited.
Watson sat up slowly and crawled to the edge of the bed where he faced Holmes. The two men stared at each other at length before either of them spoke.
“Tell me, Holmes-“ Watson began, but Holmes cut him off.
“I think, Watson, that you had rather tell me.”
“I know that you’re an invert.”
“Yes?”
“And I-I don’t know what I am. But you…that club…those men…” he was at a loss again, and very, very nervous.
“A passing whim. A temporary fancy,” Holmes said dismissively.
“No. No, nothing of the kind. I want you to tell me what it’s like.”
“You ought to know. You were married once.”
“Yes, but…it was never like this.”
Holmes glowed inwardly. He rested his head on the wall behind him. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips and a dreamy expression settled on his face.
“A great and powerful joy,” he said blissfully. “With the right man.”
Watson’s heart pounded at that, the first admission uttered with such reverence.
“Am I the right man?” he asked softly.
Holmes shifted his gaze to Watson’s face. “Are you?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“How would you have it then?”
“Best of friends. Colleagues. And lovers.”
Holmes dropped his gaze for a moment. “And what if some woman were to-“
“No. Only you. I don’t want anyone else. Ever.”
Holmes smiled.
“Unless you feel that you...you’re better suited to another,” Watson added carefully.
“I think you know the answer to that, Watson.” He held out his hand.
Watson rose from the bed, reached down and brought Holmes to his feet. They faced each other in electrified silence.
Watson cast his mind once more to that fateful night at the club. He imagined taking Holmes by the hand and leading him through the red door, only instead of a roomful of men on the other side it opened to the sitting room at Baker Street, alit with candles and draped in velvet. Their future never looked so clear, or so beautiful.
He wrapped his hand around Holmes's neck and pulled him in for a kiss.