The Speckled Band - Salacious Version
The Speckled Band
Of all these varied cases in which I have had the opportunity to study Holmes' methods, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, not only to Holmes himself, but also to my publisher who insisted that revealing the true facts of the case would be detrimental to both of our reputations (although he did concede such full disclosure would not result in widespread sales - the forbidden, the salacious and the macabre have always appealed to the public); this promise obliged me to abridge my version of events and, indeed, to engage in a number of outright lies as to what occurred.
Now, however, due to Holmes' retirement to an undisclosed location to run an apiary, both of us are far removed from the public eye and reasonably safe from the long arm of British law; thus, I feel able to make a full disclosure. To be absolutely truthful I am not only able but veritably obliged to publish this account as the metaphorical arm of my booky is considerably longer than that of the London Constabulary and, due to some rather unfortunate hands of whist and even more deplorable runs at Ascot, my debts far exceed the earnings of a simple country doctor who dabbles solely in clean prose.
Be that as it may, below you shall find the full story of the Case of the Speckled Band, unabridged, with no attempt made to assuage the public sense of decency; here it is in it's full glory: fearless, forthright, and filthy:
I awoke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits and preferred him nude before breakfast.
“What the devil, Holmes!” I demanded, “Is there a fire?”
“No; a client. When young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigation. It was watching his joy at keenly unravelling puzzles which had first made me fall in love with me friend; watching the man work is the single most erotic site in the British Empire and the only acceptable motivation for being up before nine.
I rapidly threw on my clothes, and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. It was while dressing that I remembered the only negative side to Holmes on a new case. It was a practically Newtonian law - my intense arousal at watching Holmes on a case was met by an equal and opposite reaction in my friend; Holmes complete disregard for the demands of the body while on the case were a never-ending source of frustration for me. As a doctor, his refusal to eat or rest was alarming, as a lover, his absolute asexuality in such times was deeply frustrating.
A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested. “It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes.
I stifled a yawn and resigned myself to yet another case in which a near-hysterical woman would throw herself at Holmes' feet; he would show keen interest in her problem, she would misinterpret his fascination...
“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
Holmes answered with a number of swift deduction as to her recent train travel and habits. Suitably impressed, she elicited his aid with the all-to-common request Holmes delay charging for his services until she came into her inheritance.
As Holmes agreed to work pro-bono, I kept myself from interrupting with great difficulty: Holmes' addiction to a good problem is nearly as deplorable as my own to the gaming table; it was a small miracle that, despite our vices, we managed to pay our board - however, knowledge of the true nature of the disappearance of Mr. Hudson eased our worries on that score...
I will not repeat the woman's unnecessarily prolonged and sensational version of events here - to be concise her twin sister had died suddenly although in a locked room at the time, following a low whistle and a mysterious metallic clang, of convulsions with no sign of external harm or poison. The suspicious circumstances of her death, along with a clear monetary motive of their violent stepfather who happened to collect exotic animals and smoke heavy cigars, made things suspicious and convoluted enough to warrant Holmes' attentions. To make matters all the more urgent, our client herself, now desiring to marry, had been moved to her late sisters room had put herself in danger of the falling victim to the same strange death...
Holmes lost no time in assuring her that we would investigate the matter fully and would make the trip to her home that afternoon. I waited impatiently as he ushered her out and was about to attempt to convince Holmes to indulge my desire for preprandial sodomy, when we were interrupted by our clients violent stepfather.
The brute had the gall to threaten Holmes in the strongest terms until, incensed by my friend's mild replies, he proceeded to deform our poker by bending it in two before thundering his way down our seventeen steps.
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.
The sight of the extraordinary physical strength of Holmes' arms has always fascinated me and my desire for him was now at its hight. “Holmes - ” I began, but he interrupted.
“This incident gives zest to our investigation!” he cried, donning his hat. “And now, Watson, I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.”
He left without a backwards glance. I did not, in fact, order breakfast, for my eyes remained fastened on the newly straightened poker. I was now in a state of complete and desperate arousal so acute I actually followed him to the door with every intention of forcing him to accept a kiss against the newel post - he was, however, much more swift of foot than I was and I saw the merest flash of overcoat as the door shut behind him. With a deep groan, I returned to my bed to take matters in my own hands.
***
"Now,” said Holmes to our client when we had arrived at her country home, “we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”
Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows. After a careful examination through the open window, he endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. This activity caused him to stretch to his full hight, for the window was a high one, and the sight him, arms stretched above his head to test the bars, neck turned slightly to examine the masonry rekindled my desire for him. It was only the fact that our client was in plain sight that prevented me from pressing him fully into the wall...
“Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, oblivious to the effect he was having, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.”
We were then shown the inside of the room in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment.
I felt a stab of acute and irrational hatred for our client for preventing me from making Holmes realize just how tempting he had been at the wall and for providing him with a puzzle so interesting that Holmes failed to make the extremely obvious deductions from the state of my trousers.
He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand This position was perhaps even worse than the stance he'd taken at the wall for it not only presented me with the tempting expanse of his back and his buttocks, but gave him the opportunity to move them. The undulations of his posterior as he crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards, was nothing short of obscene.
With a superhuman effort, I managed to keep my breathing even; I stole a glance at our client to gauge whether my flushed face and eager gaze would result in yet another blackmail attempt, but I saw that she was not only wholly unaffected by Holmes' performance but equally oblivious to my reactions to it. I pitied her future husband, and returned my eyes to the show as Holmes repeated his former pose at the window to inspect the bars and shutters from the inside.
Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. To this day I do not know how I resisted the urge to throw him down upon it even before the dispassionate eyes of Miss Stoner. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.
“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.
There proceeded a discussion of the seemingly unnecessary alterations to the room, including a bell-pull which did not pull and a ventilator which did not ventilate. I ignored it in favour of calming myself through a series of deep-breathing exercises.
The effect of my meditations were negated almost immediately when our client lead us to her stepfather's room. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and every item of furniture with the keenest interest, presenting a varied and intriguing serious of poses. He squatted down in front of a wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention. I examined the way his trousers tightened over his thighs at the position with perhaps greater attention.
“Thank you. That is quite settled,” he said finally, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!”
The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.
“What do you make of that, Watson?”
“It’s a common enough lash,” I answered automatically, my brain not at all interested in any printable use of the lash. “But I don’t know why it should be tied.”
“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”
We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie. She, no doubt, out of respect for his detecting abilities, and myself because I could not trust myself not to proposition the man. In the very back of my mind I recalled that I had seen a tied lash of the sort somewhere before, but the memory eluded me.
“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said Holmes suddenly, startling me from my fascination with the way his fingers twitched when he was in deep thought, “that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect. In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.”
Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment. I was filled with horror at the idea of having to spend a night confined in close quarters with Holmes and a third party, however oblivious.
“You must confine yourself to your room when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the clasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night.”
“Oh, yes, easily.”
“The rest you will leave in our hands. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”
***
Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. By the time we had lunched, I had managed to calm myself once more, promising myself that I would control my urges until our return to Baker Street.
“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Your presence might be invaluable.”
“Then I shall certainly come.”
“It is very kind of you.”
I sighed, knowing that Holmes in the state he was in was no doubt deducing the lethal properties of nocturnal whistling but incapable of seeing my obvious reasons for not allowing him to go alone: first, as the thought of allowing him to spend the night in danger alone was abhorrent to me in the extreme, and second because I had no doubt he would solve the problem that night and was eager to be present when the moment he was again capable of paying attention to the physical world.
“A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies.” he said abruptly. “Does not that strike you?”
I wished for more light; watching Holmes explaining a deduction produces in me the same effect as a man watching his lover undress. “I cannot as yet see any connection.”
“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”
“No.”
“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?”
“I cannot say that I have.”
“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope-or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime!”
It is exchanges such as these that cause my reading public to assume that I am of somewhat limited intellectual capacity compared to my friend. I offer in my defence two points: first that rational thought can hardly be expected from a man in my acute state of arousal, and second that Holmes, as any artist, required a certain amount of praise in order to flourish.
“Subtle enough and horrible enough,” he returned. “When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.”
Holmes turned his attention back to his fixed watch for the signal; I allowed myself a smirk at Holmes oblique compliment to my lesser-known activities. I do not know if my questionable experiments into the realm of hysteria machines for the male sex quite merited the term 'gone wrong' but I did pride myself on not only the 'nerve and knowledge' they required of me, but also the fact that I implemented them in my practice with such subtlety and discretion that even Lestrade had caught no rumour of their existence.
Suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.
“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.
There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unprepared breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.
“My God!” I ejaculated; “did you see it?”
Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.
“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”
The strange pets which the doctor affected had made little impression on me when distracted by watching Holmes; now, in the dark and free from distraction my brain remembered the information that there was a cheetah, too. Pistol in hand I wheeled round to ensure that nothing could come upon Holmes from behind as he clambered in though the window, and then turned to help draw me in after him.
I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime.
Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words: “The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”
I nodded to show that I had heard.
“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”
I nodded again.
“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it.”
He made to remove his hand but I clasped it and turn my head to press a kiss into his palm. He stared at me, eyes wide, as I placed my revolver carefully next to his long, thin cane on the side table and then walked him back to the bed.
I turned down the lamp and we were left in utter darkness. Holmes had already settled himself on the bed with a quick, noiseless grace. I followed, slowly, guided by his quiet breathing until I had got into bed with him and, as the bed was quite narrow, stretched myself over him.
It was difficult to see in the darkness, but Holmes' eyes glittered as he lifted his head to my ear. “Watson,” he whispered. “It were preferable should you remain in the chair. Distraction could prove fatal.”
The faint brush of his lips against my ear was exhilarating; I bent my head to take his earlobe between my teeth. “You are immune to distraction, Holmes,” I answered, as I pinned his hands on either side of his head, “I, however, am not.”
It seemed as though he wished to protest, though it was difficult to determine his expression in the darkness; at any rate, he did not object enough to risk another whisper. Taking advantage of his semi-acquiescence I kissed him deeply, shifting until I lay between his legs.
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light which vanished immediately, succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. I knew by the way Holmes' eyes shot towards the ventilator behind me that he knew what this meant and so I ignored it in favour of releasing one of his hands. I removed my glove with me teeth and fumbled to undo his tie and open his collar one-handed, not willing to release him completely.
Once I had his throat exposed I attacked it, biting it as I laced the fingers of my bare hand with his. Just as I despaired of his responding even minimally, his hips began to undulate slightly against mine and when I moved for another kiss he met me halfway.
Some stifled noises were heard from the other room, something like a chair being moved, and Holmes' eyes shot immediately to the vent again; he pushed impatiently at my hands, eyes demanding his release.
I released his hands and eased off of him and pushed my way down the bed. Just as he thought I would abandon him to full concentration on bell-pulls which did not pull, I opened his flies with my un-gloved hand and took him in my mouth.
Lifting my eyes to his, I couldn't help but be amused at the combination of irritation, distraction and arousal on his face. Conscious of the need to keep silent, I was not as aggressive at my task as I would have been in the comfort of our home, but kept to a languid tongue-flicking teasing.
Suddenly another sound became audible-a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that I heard it, I abandoned my task, moved forward and pulled the pillow from under my companions head. Ignoring his startled and outraged flailing, I tore the pillow from its cover and tossed it to the floor. Grasping the case in my un-gloved hand, I plucked the snake inching down the bell pull behind the head with the other and had it bagged, tied, and thrown to a corner of the room in a trice.
“Swamp adder,” I breathed, my voice no louder than the snake's hiss had been. “Deuced distracting.”
Danger gone, I returned my attention to Holmes who was staring at me with an expression I could not for a moment place. It was lust - pure and unadulterated lust as I had never before seen on my lover's face. It was usually I who initiated our encounters; Holmes enjoyed them but did not seek them out, while his affection for me was plain enough, he did not seem to feel physical need as I did. Now, there it was in his eyes as they glittered in the darkness - pure lust.
He raised himself and reversed our positions, clawing at my clothing until I was exposed enough for his wishes. “Watson,” he breathed into my ear, as he settled himself against me, “there are times in which I forget how very well travelled you are...”
And then one of his exquisite hands insinuated itself between us to make short work of my trouser fastenings and began to stroke. His tongue flicked ever-so-slightly against my ear as he whispered again, “you are so very, very capable.”
I was beyond puzzling out that last endearment as I thrust into his hand and turned my head to capture his lips. I was very nearly to the point of completion when we were interrupted by a low, clear whistle. Startled, I turned towards the sound, only to be thoroughly distracted by an adroit twist my lover employs so deftly.
It was too much after a day of watching, waiting and wanting. It seems, however, that even when in the grips of a human passion, Holmes does not fully lose his presence of mind for, anticipating my climax, he swiftly stopped my cry by the simple expedient of forcing my glove between my teeth.
As I came back to myself, I heard another low, clear whistle. I met Holmes' eyes.
“I do believe,” he breathed, “that the madman next door would appreciate the return of his reptile.”
It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we confronted the doctor, how we were thanked by the girl, or how Holmes managed to disguise the disgraceful state of the bed.
Suffice it to say that the swamp adder, or 'speckled band' now resides in a small, wicker cage near my desk and that I consider it more than ample remuneration for our services considering that seeing me handle it never fails to light the fire in Holmes' eyes.
_______
Original Prompt:
"I confess that I felt in my mind when, after following Holmes's example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutter, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all I could to to distinguish the words: 'The least sound would be fatal to our plans.'"
-The Speckled Band
This needs to end in sex.