Lead and Follow, Part 1
Title: Lead and Follow
Author: ladyblahblah
Rating: NC-17 for hawt Victorian man-on-man action
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Abuse of science, badly contrived and completely unrealistic situation. No, seriously.
Disclaimer: You know what's great about this fandom? Open content, baby. No disclaimer necessary. But I still wanted to say, it should be clear after reading this that I neither own nor have any official connection to SH. I think I've made ACD turn in his grave with this one. Erm . . . more than normal, that is.
Summary: There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand. This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.
Author's Notes: This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of A Lesson In Deduction, though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone. Don't say I didn't warn you. The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous. The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed. They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended. I'm sorry, boys! I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.
Milestones in history, paradigm shifts: they affect us so profoundly that it is easy to forget that they all occur on what would otherwise remain a normal, unremarkable day. Such was certainly the case for me when, on a rainy but temperate spring day in the late nineties, my world was irrevocably changed.
I find myself masking the exact date more out of habit than the hope that I may spare any amount of grief by withholding certain details. In truth, I should not be recording these events at all. Years ago, however, long before his miraculous return, I swore a vow to keep a detailed and thorough record of my dealings with Sherlock Holmes; to omit this relation from my accounts is as unthinkable to me as its publication. It will remain safely tucked away, for my eyes alone, to be shared only with my good friend should he ever profess an interest in what I have written.
As I have said, it had been for the most part quite a pleasant spring, and a welcome change from the bitter winter that had preceded it. Despite the excellent weather, however, Holmes had been shut away in his room for days. The few times that I dared to look in on him, thinking to entice him with a bite to eat, I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, puffing away on his pipe and staring abstractedly into space. Even addressing him directly could not rouse him from his state of contemplation, and eventually I gave up the attempt.
It was useless trying to pull Holmes out of his thoughts at times like these, as I had learned long ago over those first few years of our cohabitation. It seemed that he had not had cause to change in the time that we had been apart. I felt grateful that he seemed at least to have eschewed the comforts of his morocco case in this instance, and that he had taken to smoking in his room so that the buildup of toxic fumes might bother me less. Still, I worried over him, confined to that room for so long with such a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke built up around him. I would gladly have opened his window to let in some fresh air, but a steady rain had begun to fall that afternoon and I did not wish to expose him to the elements when he had apparently had neither food nor sleep for the past two days.
I was just sitting down to supper, and thinking of trying once more to rouse him at least enough to eat a bite or two, when I heard his door open. I looked over to see the man himself half-stumble out of his room, his legs likely weak from lack of use. His eyes lit on my humble spread and his nostrils flared; I felt heartened to see him visibly taking in, and enjoying, the strong scent of roast beef and gravy that drifted through the air. He ran a hand over his haggard face and made his way to the bell pull while I could only stare in astonishment.
When the maid answered his summons he entreated her to have Mrs. Hudson prepare a share of the food for him as well, with instructions to simply leave it on the table for him if he had not returned by the time of its arrival. That done, he turned and reentered his room without saying so much as a word to me, closing the door behind him once more.
Out of combined manners and painful curiosity, I decided to postpone my own meal until he joined me. I picked up my copy of the evening Times and began to peruse it, though it was normally my habit to leave it until after I ate. I could hear Holmes moving about and the occasional sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom.
His food arrived and was laid out as he had instructed; shortly afterwards he emerged again, his clothes exchanged for fresh ones and his person no longer reeking of stale tobacco smoke. Instead the faint scent of his cologne tickled my nose, and I shifted uncomfortably. Oblivious, as he so often was in regards to me, he seated himself and began to apply himself to his meal like a ravenous wolf. Setting aside my paper I followed his example, though with, I hope, a bit more decorum.
Holmes was utterly absorbed in the task of eating, and I took the opportunity to study him covertly. Doing so was one of my favorite-though guiltiest-pastimes. My eyes were drawn to his form, to his catlike grace, as a lodestone is drawn to the north. Unfortunately my studies were all necessarily short-lived, as my combined fear of being caught out and my body’s dramatic response to the sight of him made it impossible for me to observe him with tranquility for any great amount of time.
It had been many years since my first unsettling dream of Holmes, the details of which I have also recorded within these same pages. I had never acted on my feelings for my old friend in that time, though I remained unable to control the dreams and fantasies that had begun to plague me. Even after I had wed my Mary, much as I loved her I could not cease imagining the arms of the man sitting now before me, could not stop my fevered brain from conjuring images of the two of us locked together in a wicked embrace. To my profound shame it was almost a relief to me when she died, taking with her the guilt that had hounded me as if I had been unfaithful in deed as well as in thought. For even Holmes’s supposed death had not cooled my perverse desires; I dreamed nightly of his returning, miraculously alive, to take me in his arms and make me his at last.
Of course, when he did reappear, miraculously alive in fact and not merely in my dreams, it was with perfect nonchalance and the assumption that his sudden reappearance would not send his old partner into a swooning shock. There was nothing romantic about his return, nothing to suggest that he had grieved my loss over the past three years as I had grieved for him.
Such indifference, such selfishness should have cured me of my feelings; it shames me to say it did no such thing. Even now, having been willfully deprived of his company for the past two days, I desired him with a fierceness that would have been frightening had there been a hope of it ever coming to fruition.
My thoughts were interrupted as Holmes finally sat back with a contented sigh, looking as sated as if he had just finished a five-course meal instead of Mrs. Hudson’s simple fare. I shook my head.
“You don’t eat enough to sustain a flea, Holmes,” I said, pushing away my own empty plate. “It’s a miracle of science that you manage to possess yourself of such energy on so little fuel.”
Holmes simply looked at me for a moment before he burst out laughing. I have said before that Holmes’s laughter usually signifies an unfortunate fate for some poor soul. At the time, unfortunately, I did not make a connection between that laugh and the danger in which I was shortly to find myself.
“I’m sorry,” he said, noting my offended look. “But you truly are a singular joy as a friend, Watson. It is all over your face that you are desperate to know what has had me holed up for so long. You do not wish for it to appear as though you might be prying, however, so instead of asking about it you lecture me about my health, though you know I never listen to your well-meant advice.”
I sat back, hardly mollified. “You might be a bit more charitable to someone who only has your best interests at heart.”
“Oh, I know it, Watson. In fact, I’m counting on it, for I find that I have been beset by a singular problem, one that I have no hope of solving without your assistance. It is that which has had me dwelling in my own thoughts for so long. I shall explain all,” he said, forestalling the inquiries I was about to make, “later, after the dishes have been cleared away. It is something of a delicate matter, and I would prefer that we remain uninterrupted.”
Soon enough the maid returned to retrieve the remains of our meal, though to me the interval seemed unbearably long. I was desperate to know what problem had so stymied the great Sherlock Holmes that he had to turn to me for aid. For his part he seemed completely at his ease, and had even picked up my discarded newspaper to skim through his beloved agony columns.
When at last we were alone again he set aside the paper, poured us both a brandy and asked that I close the curtains. I readily obliged him, assuming that his request must have sprung from the aforementioned delicacy of the situation. We settled into our chairs, I on the edge of mine and Holmes lounging at his ease.
“Well?” I prompted. “What is the problem that has vexed you so, and how may I be of assistance?”
Holmes chuckled. “I’m afraid it is not nearly as exciting as your keen interest deserves. I have merely come to the point where I must reevaluate something that I had long considered as an incontrovertible truth. Now I find I must concede the possibility-nay, the likelihood-that my presumptions were incorrect.”
“Whatever can you be talking about, Holmes?”
“I have never been . . . good with emotions,” he said awkwardly. “I do not know how to express them; indeed, I have long doubted that I am even possessed of the full range of what would commonly be described as human feeling. It is a failing of mine; perhaps my chief failing, for without ever having truly felt those forces that drive people, how could I hope to truly understand them? I might well be able to comprehend on an intellectual level; but as I’m sure you know, human beings rarely act in a wholly logical and intellectual manner.
“I can not condone the triumph of emotion over reason. However, I found in my travels, without my trusted friend and companion at my side, that I must admit to the importance that human feeling all too often has in the hearts and minds of the criminal element. Alone, I found myself often at a loss, stymied by those seemingly insignificant details which you so often reflected for me.”
I was, I confess, at something of a loss myself. It was highly unusual for Holmes to refer to his adventures abroad, a technique intended, I suspect, to keep me from quizzing him on the subject. He had certainly never gone so far before as to suggest that he might, even in so small away, have regretted my absence. Holmes took no notice of my astonishment, but continued his speech as though nothing he had said was in any way unusual.
“And what emotion, Watson” he asked, bright eyes fixed on mine, “lies at the root of almost every crime that we have investigated together? Do you know?”
I shook my head to say that I did not.
“Desire!” he ejaculated, springing to his feet in a fit of energy. “That is to say, not merely a generalized greed for anything one finds appealing, but base, physical desire; the basic biological need to mate. It is one of the driving forces of the human race, but upon reflection I was forced to admit that I had never felt it. Why should people commit such vile crimes-lie, cheat, steal, even kill-for such a thing? It baffles me. Yet I have witnessed first-hand that such behavior is not at all uncommon.”
“All right,” I said slowly. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”
“I’m getting there,” Holmes said, shoving an agitated hand through his hair as he began to pace. “I thought, for most of my life, that I was beyond such desire. I have never hungered for a woman’s flesh as other men have; I have never felt my heart speed at the touch of a female hand, nor dwelt on the taste of soft lips. I believed that I simply existed outside of the bounds of physical need. I often felt no need for sleep or for food; why not then the remaining biological imperative?
“This recent scandal in the courts has got me thinking, however. Is it possible, I am forced to ask, that my indifference to the female form springs not from a disdain of the act of copulation itself, but rather from a preference for an alternative that I have never explored? I have found that thinking of such an alternative has produced some . . . ah . . .” he cleared his throat, glancing away from me, “noticeable results. And this is where your assistance becomes crucial.” He sat once again in his chair, leaned forward and stared me straight in the eye. “You see, Watson, I must ask you to take me to bed.”
I’m afraid that I merely sat there for quite a while, unable to do anything more than blink stupidly at my friend. I was vaguely aware of his calling my name more than once, but the sound barely registered. My mind was consumed. Could it be that he had discovered my feelings at last? Could he be mocking me? That did not seem like Holmes, but I was at a loss to explain it any other way.
His hand on my knee finally brought me back to myself. I jerked away and raised my glass to down my brandy in one gulp, feeling slightly more grounded by the burn it created in my stomach. When I turned back to Holmes he was still looking at me, his brow creased in mild concern.
“Watson?”
“It’s all right, Holmes,” I managed in a rough voice. “We can just . . . forget about this entire thing. You needn’t worry that I’ll ever bring it up again.”
He frowned. “Is that a ‘no’, then?”
“Holmes! What on earth can you be thinking? It’s beyond words, saying such a thing as calmly as you please!”
“Should I have stammered and blushed and prevaricated? I prefer to be direct in my dealings. I see no reason to beat around the bush.”
“You-I-” I couldn’t manage more than an indignant sputter. I took a deep breath and tried a different approach. “If I were a woman, would you have propositioned me in such a way?”
“If you were a woman,” he said reasonably, “I would not have propositioned you at all.”
“It’s illegal!”
He chuckled. “Yes, it is. But breaking this particular law holds less danger for us-and others-than, say, illegally entering someone’s home, which we have done on more than one occasion.” I could feel myself pale at these words, so closely mirroring those of that first fevered dream, and for a moment I prayed that I was merely asleep again, suffering the torments of my subconscious. “I see no reason now, nor have I ever, not to flout an unjust law. You are my friend of old, Watson; you should be used to my idiosyncrasies by now.”
“And do you suggest such things to all of your friends?” I asked coldly.
His eyes narrowed. “It does not become your personality, Watson, to make such a spiteful attack. Who else should I ask, if not a friend? I have no desire to risk disease by visiting a rent boy for this experiment, and with the entire Empire currently buzzing about this blasted trial there’s no guarantee of safety and anonymity even with a stranger of my own station.” His expression softened. “I asked you, Watson, because I trust you. I know that you would not betray me, even if you should be repulsed by my request.”
I shot to my feet, moving to pace as he had only moments before. “Holmes,” I said in a strangled voice, “do not ask this of me. In the name of our friendship, I beg you, do not ask it.”
“Why?” he demanded, rising to face me. “You are not completely averse to the idea; that much is clear.”
“Is it? And which ink stain on my jacket or spot of mud on my shoes led you to that conclusion?”
Despite my bitter words he chuckled again. “There was no need to resort to such minutia. Despite your protestations, after criticizing my approach the first true objection you raised was the legality of the act. Had you been entirely disinterested you would simply have said that you could not bring yourself to be intimate with a man. Even without such paltry deductions, however, the evidence is . . . quite clear.”
His eyes drifted down to the front of my trousers, and to my embarrassment it was only then that I noticed the full state of my arousal. His casual words, I realized, had sparked a barrage of imaginings, and I had hardened almost immediately upon his suggestion. My body, traitor that it was, had heartily accepted Holmes’s proposal even if my mind and heart had not.
“You can’t just . . . it wouldn’t be an accurate test,” I said desperately, trying to appeal to his scientific mind. “It’s about physical attraction, not simply jumping upon the first person who happens to be convenient.”
“I don’t see that that disqualifies you,” he answered. “You’re quite a good-looking man, doctor, though I can not yet say with certainty if I find you sexually attractive. You are also distinctly masculine; I think that the greater that distinction the better for the purposes of this test. It seems to me a reasonable hypothesis that if I am not attracted to the female form, a manlier physique may entice me. This is only a theory, of course. But I do think that I should not dislike finding out for certain.”
Holmes stepped closer, and my head filled with the scent of his cologne. “In any case, it may not be necessary to go as far as you fear. A simple kiss should give me an accurate idea of how appealing I might find you, and we might very well be able to end our inquiries there.” As I stood there, frozen, he cupped my jaw in his hand. “Surely you would not begrudge me one kiss in the name of scientific discovery, old friend?”
I could not move, could not so much as blink as his mouth descended upon mine. His eyes remained open, as well, as our lips met. It was nothing more than a soft rub and press at first as he investigated the shape of me. My moustache brushed against the soft skin of his upper lip and I saw him give a tiny shiver at the sensation. His tongue darted out to flit briefly over my bottom lip before he pulled back, his eyes gone slightly hazy.
“Yes,” he said huskily, “I believe I liked that very much indeed. I think I might like it more, however, if you kissed me back.”
I was lost, and had been since the instant that his lips met mine; or, if I were truly honest with myself, from the moment he had so bluntly propositioned me. This would likely be my only chance to have Holmes’s body at my disposal, I reasoned. I would be a fool if I did not jump at the opportunity.
I crushed my mouth to his with more violence than I had intended, though his moan seemed to indicate that he did not mind. His arms locked around me as if to keep me from breaking away should I suddenly change my mind. There was no danger of that. I had finally got a taste of him, and I would not be satisfied now until I had gorged myself.
We stumbled to his bedroom like a pair of drunkards, unwilling to release each other long enough to open the door. I pinned Holmes against it and set my teeth and tongue to work on his ear, producing a gratifying series of startled gasps and moans. His hand groped for the doorknob and finally managed to wrench it open, nearly sending us tumbling to the floor.
The stale smoke that still hung in a cloud around his room sobered us somewhat, and by mutual consent we made our way to my room instead. Once there I closed and locked the door behind us, turning around to find Holmes watching me with clear desire.
“Astounding,” he murmured, stepping forward and reaching up to slip my jacket from my shoulders. “Even after . . . I never thought to feel anything this strongly.” His clever fingers went to work on my collar. “Like a fire inside of me, but not at all unpleasant.” My cuffs joined my collar and my jacket. “Will you kiss me again? I find that I quite enjoy it.”
I eagerly complied, working at the same time to undress Holmes as well, a task made more difficult by the way his kisses blanked out my mind. I had no idea where the man had learned to kiss so well, and if I had possessed more of my faculties I may very well have been unfairly jealous. All of my meager thoughts, however, were focused on the task of stripping him to the skin so that I might at last feel that long, sinewy body pressed up against mine.
While my hands tugged his shirttails out of his trousers, my mouth set to work discovering the glory that was his long, slender neck. I found a spot beneath his ear that made him buck and cry wildly in my arms. The prospect of a Holmes for once out of control was unbelievably erotic, and I lavished attention on the spot until I had formed a small purple mark there.
No matter how many times I see evidence of it, I am always continually surprised by Holmes’s strength, perhaps because it is only ever displayed in unexpected moments. This was no exception, as I found myself suddenly shoved forcefully back onto the bed. The rest of my clothing was swiftly discarded and Holmes all but pounced on me, our naked flesh meeting at last.
I confess that the sensation caused me to go a bit wild. For several minutes Holmes and I wrestled, both of us fighting for dominance. I had an unfair advantage, however, in my greater experience, and even my own late wife’s example in the bedroom for guidance. I reached down between his legs to skim a finger lightly over the soft skin behind his testes. He shuddered and moaned in response, and his reaction gave me the chance to reverse our positions until I was on top of him, pressing him into the gentle yield of the mattress.
I had to taste him; I thought that I might go mad if I did not. My hands skimmed over his chest, down to his stomach and beyond to grasp his swollen shaft already weeping for attention. I slithered down and exhaled a warm breath over him. I glanced up to see him still at last, watching me closely. With my eyes on his, I slowly lowered my head.
The first feeling of his rigid organ against my tongue was intoxicating. I moaned and ran my tongue up the underside of his shaft from base to tip, pausing to swirl around the leaking head. His breathing had grown ragged, and I saw that his hands had fisted in the sheets. He tasted splendid, but I wanted more than just his taste; I craved the feel of him in my mouth. When I closed around him his head fell back and a long, guttural groan escaped him.
Thrilled at his response I continued to move, letting my moustache brush against his abdomen each time I lowered my head. After several attempts I was eventually able to take him into my throat, and I found his look of almost pained ecstasy well worth the trouble. Finally I felt him begin to shake and his spine grow rigid; I swallowed him as deeply as I could as he pulsed out his release, drinking down all that spilled from the magnificent creature beneath me.
A normal man-at least, if I may be considered normal-generally has his energies and faculties drained after such an experience. However, as Holmes was extraordinary in so many other respects, I suppose I should not have been too surprised to discover that his stamina in bed was equally astounding. Only moments after he had spent himself I found myself trapped beneath him, his hot mouth trailing mind-numbingly over my body.
“That really was a most astonishing experience, Watson,” he murmured in my ear between kisses. “I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to return the favor.”
He did not wait for a response, but slid down my body like quicksilver. I expected him to simply imitate what I had done to him; instead, he spent long moments studying me until I began to shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze.
“This is returning the favor, Holmes?” I asked dryly.
He smirked up at me. “You can not be surprised, my dear doctor, that my natural curiosity extends to matters of the bedroom. And as always, I find that it is beneficial to first take a quick visual summary. Now that I have done so . . .”
His tongue began to trail, with excruciating slowness and softness, up my length. I began to tremble at the sensation, that ghost of a touch so light as to hardly be substantial at all. A sound perilously close to a whine slipped from my throat, and I fought for control. My hips shifted restlessly towards him; in response he merely moved one arm to hold them down while his other hand slid up to cradle and stroke my testes. The world was spinning, and I found myself helpless to stop it. He had slipped my foreskin back and was exploring the head of my shaft with maddening thoroughness when the tip of his tongue pressed against a spot under the tip of my prick, and stars erupted in my field of vision.
“Holmes,” I cried.
The glorious sensations stopped but for his hand still caressing me. I forced open my eyes and saw that he had raised his head and was looking at me with an odd mix of curiosity and lust.
“That,” he said slowly, “was most intriguing.” His eyes were hot, belying his lazy words. “I never imagined I might hear my name screamed in such a fashion.” He lowered his head, and I only just heard him say, “Do it again.”
His tongue pressed against that spot once more, and again my vision swam. “Holmes,” I moaned.
He made a sound like an approving purr. “Not quite a scream, but I like that, too.” Without further comment, he took me in his mouth.
The rest remains a sea of blind sensation, one touch or caress indistinguishable from the next. Holmes’s mouth on me was a pleasure greater than any I had ever known, and as much as I craved the sweet way I knew it would end I was loath to have such glorious feelings cease. Finally, however, I could hold out no longer. My climax hit me like a tidal wave, leaving me feeling dazed and empty. I was vaguely aware that Holmes had pulled away after I had finished, and I assumed that he was leaving for his own room. I was disappointed, I admit, but not surprised, when I heard him searching under the bed-some of his clothing, I thought, must have been kicked there in our passion.
I was, as is usual when I try to second-guess Holmes’s motives, mistaken.
My eyes shot open as his elegant fingers, coated in something slick, probed gently at my entrance. He was staring down at me, his eyes intense.
“I must say, there are distinct advantages to engaging in such acts with a man who keeps his medical bag beneath the bed.” He lowered his head to feather a kiss over my temple. “I have gathered a great deal of theoretical knowledge over the course of my investigation, Watson, but in practical matters I remain something of a novice; there is still much more for me to learn about this desire of mine. I shall promise to be gentle, however, and to make it as pleasurable for you as possible.”
So saying he slipped one long finger inside of me, sending shudders wracking down my spine. The feeling was surpassingly odd, his single, slender digit stroking the walls of my tight channel. However, when the tip of his finger brushed against the gland buried deep inside of me the sensation swiftly changed from odd to euphoric. It seemed as though my entire being was focused on that one blissful feeling, and on Holmes’s finger moving slowly within me.
A second finger joined the first and my eyes drifted closed. Even without the added stimulation when Holmes chanced to brush against that glorious spot, I realized that I was gaining pleasure simply from his touch. To be filled in this way was thrilling; the slide of his fingers in that most intimate place was indescribably erotic, and I could feel the response of my own eager flesh swelling once more.
His hand was twisting, those exquisitely elegant digits scissoring gently as he stretched me. I had enough knowledge of such encounters, gleaned from army barracks and medical conferences, to know what was in store for me next. Far from being apprehensive, however, as I might have thought I would be, I experienced only a breathless anticipation. Indeed, the thought of being possessed so completely by my suddenly passionate partner only made my desire grow. Soon I was writhing beneath his touch, desperate for more but uncertain how to ask.
Luckily, Holmes seemed as intuitive as always, and as adept at reading my unvoiced thoughts. He leaned down and kissed me as his fingers withdrew from my body. Moments later he took hold of my right hand and deposited a dollop of lotion onto my fingers before guiding them to his stiffened member. Taking his cue, I began to caress his swollen flesh, slicking the lotion over the length of his shaft. He broke our kiss with a groan, his eyes squeezed closed, and his breathing became erratic.
I confess I took a certain perverse pleasure in the knowledge that with a few simple touches I could push this extraordinary man to the very limits of his control.
I had not long to revel in my discovery, however; Holmes gently (and, it seemed to me, reluctantly) pulled my hand away from him and eased my legs apart to position himself at my entrance. I took a deep breath and tried to relax, knowing it would make his passage easier. Even so, when he pushed forward I had to bite my lip to hold back a cry. He felt so incredibly full inside of me, stretching me to the point of pain even with his careful preparation. I knew that he could not have progressed more than an inch, yet I felt certain that he could go no farther. I did not think that I could take any further invasion.
I was, again, mistaken. Holmes continued his slow, insistent movement, careful to give me time to adjust to his presence within me. My breathing was harsh in my own ears. I had closed my eyes, but opened them now to see him gazing down at me, question clear in his eyes. I shook my head mutely. There was discomfort, true, but having him sheathed inside me like this was glorious. I did not wish for him to stop. Fearful that there were too many emotions on my face for him to readily discern the one I most wanted to convey, I opted for a surer method of indicating my cooperation. I lifted my hips towards him, letting him slide that much deeper into me.
His eyes widened at the sensation, and I noted with a kind of fierce glee that his body was trembling. When he began to slowly withdraw, however, I feared that I had done something to hurt or displease him. I needn’t have worried; a moment later he pushed forward again, his movements gentle but undeniably certain.
It was not the same as that first penetration, when a part of me had wanted desperately to expel him again even as the rest of me had delighted in the bliss of joining. Now I had grown more accustomed to his presence, and the friction created between us by that smooth thrust thrilled nerve endings of whose existence I had been previously unaware. My back arched, my eyes widened, my breath stalled in my throat. Holmes, I could see, was similarly affected; his lips were parted on a soundless gasp, his eyes blind and staring.
“John,” he moaned, his voice strangled, and the sound of my Christian name uttered in such a way sent bold shocks of arousal through my body.
Those lips that I had often found so tempting-had I once called them thin? They were full and ripe with passion-proved irresistible now. My neck curved up and I captured his mouth in a kiss as my hands gripped his back with a strength born of desperate need. When he began to move in a steady rhythm inside of me that grip was the only thing that kept me tethered to reality; surely without it I would have floated away toward the Paradise that came closer with each successive thrust.
Our kiss never broke, the sounds we both made trapped and muffled in each other’s mouths. My erection was trapped between us and was being gently rubbed between our stomachs as we moved. I felt Holmes’s weight shift above me and a moment later his hand had wrapped around my rigid shaft, stroking me in time with his movements. It was all too much, and with a guttural cry I emptied myself once again. Before the aftershocks had passed I felt Holmes stiffen above me, heard his cry, and a sudden liquid warmth spilled forth within me.
When I came to myself again, it was with the sense of the world filtering slowly through the haze of euphoria in which I was wrapped. I was aware of Holmes’s weight on top of me, effectively pinning me to the mattress. I felt his panting breath on my neck and the evidence of my own pleasure slowly cooling between us. I recall a vague thought that we should clean ourselves, before the toll of our exertions hit me full force and I passed into the soundest sleep I have ever experienced.
Part 2
Author: ladyblahblah
Rating: NC-17 for hawt Victorian man-on-man action
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Abuse of science, badly contrived and completely unrealistic situation. No, seriously.
Disclaimer: You know what's great about this fandom? Open content, baby. No disclaimer necessary. But I still wanted to say, it should be clear after reading this that I neither own nor have any official connection to SH. I think I've made ACD turn in his grave with this one. Erm . . . more than normal, that is.
Summary: There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand. This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.
Author's Notes: This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of A Lesson In Deduction, though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone. Don't say I didn't warn you. The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous. The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed. They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended. I'm sorry, boys! I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.
Milestones in history, paradigm shifts: they affect us so profoundly that it is easy to forget that they all occur on what would otherwise remain a normal, unremarkable day. Such was certainly the case for me when, on a rainy but temperate spring day in the late nineties, my world was irrevocably changed.
I find myself masking the exact date more out of habit than the hope that I may spare any amount of grief by withholding certain details. In truth, I should not be recording these events at all. Years ago, however, long before his miraculous return, I swore a vow to keep a detailed and thorough record of my dealings with Sherlock Holmes; to omit this relation from my accounts is as unthinkable to me as its publication. It will remain safely tucked away, for my eyes alone, to be shared only with my good friend should he ever profess an interest in what I have written.
As I have said, it had been for the most part quite a pleasant spring, and a welcome change from the bitter winter that had preceded it. Despite the excellent weather, however, Holmes had been shut away in his room for days. The few times that I dared to look in on him, thinking to entice him with a bite to eat, I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, puffing away on his pipe and staring abstractedly into space. Even addressing him directly could not rouse him from his state of contemplation, and eventually I gave up the attempt.
It was useless trying to pull Holmes out of his thoughts at times like these, as I had learned long ago over those first few years of our cohabitation. It seemed that he had not had cause to change in the time that we had been apart. I felt grateful that he seemed at least to have eschewed the comforts of his morocco case in this instance, and that he had taken to smoking in his room so that the buildup of toxic fumes might bother me less. Still, I worried over him, confined to that room for so long with such a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke built up around him. I would gladly have opened his window to let in some fresh air, but a steady rain had begun to fall that afternoon and I did not wish to expose him to the elements when he had apparently had neither food nor sleep for the past two days.
I was just sitting down to supper, and thinking of trying once more to rouse him at least enough to eat a bite or two, when I heard his door open. I looked over to see the man himself half-stumble out of his room, his legs likely weak from lack of use. His eyes lit on my humble spread and his nostrils flared; I felt heartened to see him visibly taking in, and enjoying, the strong scent of roast beef and gravy that drifted through the air. He ran a hand over his haggard face and made his way to the bell pull while I could only stare in astonishment.
When the maid answered his summons he entreated her to have Mrs. Hudson prepare a share of the food for him as well, with instructions to simply leave it on the table for him if he had not returned by the time of its arrival. That done, he turned and reentered his room without saying so much as a word to me, closing the door behind him once more.
Out of combined manners and painful curiosity, I decided to postpone my own meal until he joined me. I picked up my copy of the evening Times and began to peruse it, though it was normally my habit to leave it until after I ate. I could hear Holmes moving about and the occasional sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom.
His food arrived and was laid out as he had instructed; shortly afterwards he emerged again, his clothes exchanged for fresh ones and his person no longer reeking of stale tobacco smoke. Instead the faint scent of his cologne tickled my nose, and I shifted uncomfortably. Oblivious, as he so often was in regards to me, he seated himself and began to apply himself to his meal like a ravenous wolf. Setting aside my paper I followed his example, though with, I hope, a bit more decorum.
Holmes was utterly absorbed in the task of eating, and I took the opportunity to study him covertly. Doing so was one of my favorite-though guiltiest-pastimes. My eyes were drawn to his form, to his catlike grace, as a lodestone is drawn to the north. Unfortunately my studies were all necessarily short-lived, as my combined fear of being caught out and my body’s dramatic response to the sight of him made it impossible for me to observe him with tranquility for any great amount of time.
It had been many years since my first unsettling dream of Holmes, the details of which I have also recorded within these same pages. I had never acted on my feelings for my old friend in that time, though I remained unable to control the dreams and fantasies that had begun to plague me. Even after I had wed my Mary, much as I loved her I could not cease imagining the arms of the man sitting now before me, could not stop my fevered brain from conjuring images of the two of us locked together in a wicked embrace. To my profound shame it was almost a relief to me when she died, taking with her the guilt that had hounded me as if I had been unfaithful in deed as well as in thought. For even Holmes’s supposed death had not cooled my perverse desires; I dreamed nightly of his returning, miraculously alive, to take me in his arms and make me his at last.
Of course, when he did reappear, miraculously alive in fact and not merely in my dreams, it was with perfect nonchalance and the assumption that his sudden reappearance would not send his old partner into a swooning shock. There was nothing romantic about his return, nothing to suggest that he had grieved my loss over the past three years as I had grieved for him.
Such indifference, such selfishness should have cured me of my feelings; it shames me to say it did no such thing. Even now, having been willfully deprived of his company for the past two days, I desired him with a fierceness that would have been frightening had there been a hope of it ever coming to fruition.
My thoughts were interrupted as Holmes finally sat back with a contented sigh, looking as sated as if he had just finished a five-course meal instead of Mrs. Hudson’s simple fare. I shook my head.
“You don’t eat enough to sustain a flea, Holmes,” I said, pushing away my own empty plate. “It’s a miracle of science that you manage to possess yourself of such energy on so little fuel.”
Holmes simply looked at me for a moment before he burst out laughing. I have said before that Holmes’s laughter usually signifies an unfortunate fate for some poor soul. At the time, unfortunately, I did not make a connection between that laugh and the danger in which I was shortly to find myself.
“I’m sorry,” he said, noting my offended look. “But you truly are a singular joy as a friend, Watson. It is all over your face that you are desperate to know what has had me holed up for so long. You do not wish for it to appear as though you might be prying, however, so instead of asking about it you lecture me about my health, though you know I never listen to your well-meant advice.”
I sat back, hardly mollified. “You might be a bit more charitable to someone who only has your best interests at heart.”
“Oh, I know it, Watson. In fact, I’m counting on it, for I find that I have been beset by a singular problem, one that I have no hope of solving without your assistance. It is that which has had me dwelling in my own thoughts for so long. I shall explain all,” he said, forestalling the inquiries I was about to make, “later, after the dishes have been cleared away. It is something of a delicate matter, and I would prefer that we remain uninterrupted.”
Soon enough the maid returned to retrieve the remains of our meal, though to me the interval seemed unbearably long. I was desperate to know what problem had so stymied the great Sherlock Holmes that he had to turn to me for aid. For his part he seemed completely at his ease, and had even picked up my discarded newspaper to skim through his beloved agony columns.
When at last we were alone again he set aside the paper, poured us both a brandy and asked that I close the curtains. I readily obliged him, assuming that his request must have sprung from the aforementioned delicacy of the situation. We settled into our chairs, I on the edge of mine and Holmes lounging at his ease.
“Well?” I prompted. “What is the problem that has vexed you so, and how may I be of assistance?”
Holmes chuckled. “I’m afraid it is not nearly as exciting as your keen interest deserves. I have merely come to the point where I must reevaluate something that I had long considered as an incontrovertible truth. Now I find I must concede the possibility-nay, the likelihood-that my presumptions were incorrect.”
“Whatever can you be talking about, Holmes?”
“I have never been . . . good with emotions,” he said awkwardly. “I do not know how to express them; indeed, I have long doubted that I am even possessed of the full range of what would commonly be described as human feeling. It is a failing of mine; perhaps my chief failing, for without ever having truly felt those forces that drive people, how could I hope to truly understand them? I might well be able to comprehend on an intellectual level; but as I’m sure you know, human beings rarely act in a wholly logical and intellectual manner.
“I can not condone the triumph of emotion over reason. However, I found in my travels, without my trusted friend and companion at my side, that I must admit to the importance that human feeling all too often has in the hearts and minds of the criminal element. Alone, I found myself often at a loss, stymied by those seemingly insignificant details which you so often reflected for me.”
I was, I confess, at something of a loss myself. It was highly unusual for Holmes to refer to his adventures abroad, a technique intended, I suspect, to keep me from quizzing him on the subject. He had certainly never gone so far before as to suggest that he might, even in so small away, have regretted my absence. Holmes took no notice of my astonishment, but continued his speech as though nothing he had said was in any way unusual.
“And what emotion, Watson” he asked, bright eyes fixed on mine, “lies at the root of almost every crime that we have investigated together? Do you know?”
I shook my head to say that I did not.
“Desire!” he ejaculated, springing to his feet in a fit of energy. “That is to say, not merely a generalized greed for anything one finds appealing, but base, physical desire; the basic biological need to mate. It is one of the driving forces of the human race, but upon reflection I was forced to admit that I had never felt it. Why should people commit such vile crimes-lie, cheat, steal, even kill-for such a thing? It baffles me. Yet I have witnessed first-hand that such behavior is not at all uncommon.”
“All right,” I said slowly. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”
“I’m getting there,” Holmes said, shoving an agitated hand through his hair as he began to pace. “I thought, for most of my life, that I was beyond such desire. I have never hungered for a woman’s flesh as other men have; I have never felt my heart speed at the touch of a female hand, nor dwelt on the taste of soft lips. I believed that I simply existed outside of the bounds of physical need. I often felt no need for sleep or for food; why not then the remaining biological imperative?
“This recent scandal in the courts has got me thinking, however. Is it possible, I am forced to ask, that my indifference to the female form springs not from a disdain of the act of copulation itself, but rather from a preference for an alternative that I have never explored? I have found that thinking of such an alternative has produced some . . . ah . . .” he cleared his throat, glancing away from me, “noticeable results. And this is where your assistance becomes crucial.” He sat once again in his chair, leaned forward and stared me straight in the eye. “You see, Watson, I must ask you to take me to bed.”
I’m afraid that I merely sat there for quite a while, unable to do anything more than blink stupidly at my friend. I was vaguely aware of his calling my name more than once, but the sound barely registered. My mind was consumed. Could it be that he had discovered my feelings at last? Could he be mocking me? That did not seem like Holmes, but I was at a loss to explain it any other way.
His hand on my knee finally brought me back to myself. I jerked away and raised my glass to down my brandy in one gulp, feeling slightly more grounded by the burn it created in my stomach. When I turned back to Holmes he was still looking at me, his brow creased in mild concern.
“Watson?”
“It’s all right, Holmes,” I managed in a rough voice. “We can just . . . forget about this entire thing. You needn’t worry that I’ll ever bring it up again.”
He frowned. “Is that a ‘no’, then?”
“Holmes! What on earth can you be thinking? It’s beyond words, saying such a thing as calmly as you please!”
“Should I have stammered and blushed and prevaricated? I prefer to be direct in my dealings. I see no reason to beat around the bush.”
“You-I-” I couldn’t manage more than an indignant sputter. I took a deep breath and tried a different approach. “If I were a woman, would you have propositioned me in such a way?”
“If you were a woman,” he said reasonably, “I would not have propositioned you at all.”
“It’s illegal!”
He chuckled. “Yes, it is. But breaking this particular law holds less danger for us-and others-than, say, illegally entering someone’s home, which we have done on more than one occasion.” I could feel myself pale at these words, so closely mirroring those of that first fevered dream, and for a moment I prayed that I was merely asleep again, suffering the torments of my subconscious. “I see no reason now, nor have I ever, not to flout an unjust law. You are my friend of old, Watson; you should be used to my idiosyncrasies by now.”
“And do you suggest such things to all of your friends?” I asked coldly.
His eyes narrowed. “It does not become your personality, Watson, to make such a spiteful attack. Who else should I ask, if not a friend? I have no desire to risk disease by visiting a rent boy for this experiment, and with the entire Empire currently buzzing about this blasted trial there’s no guarantee of safety and anonymity even with a stranger of my own station.” His expression softened. “I asked you, Watson, because I trust you. I know that you would not betray me, even if you should be repulsed by my request.”
I shot to my feet, moving to pace as he had only moments before. “Holmes,” I said in a strangled voice, “do not ask this of me. In the name of our friendship, I beg you, do not ask it.”
“Why?” he demanded, rising to face me. “You are not completely averse to the idea; that much is clear.”
“Is it? And which ink stain on my jacket or spot of mud on my shoes led you to that conclusion?”
Despite my bitter words he chuckled again. “There was no need to resort to such minutia. Despite your protestations, after criticizing my approach the first true objection you raised was the legality of the act. Had you been entirely disinterested you would simply have said that you could not bring yourself to be intimate with a man. Even without such paltry deductions, however, the evidence is . . . quite clear.”
His eyes drifted down to the front of my trousers, and to my embarrassment it was only then that I noticed the full state of my arousal. His casual words, I realized, had sparked a barrage of imaginings, and I had hardened almost immediately upon his suggestion. My body, traitor that it was, had heartily accepted Holmes’s proposal even if my mind and heart had not.
“You can’t just . . . it wouldn’t be an accurate test,” I said desperately, trying to appeal to his scientific mind. “It’s about physical attraction, not simply jumping upon the first person who happens to be convenient.”
“I don’t see that that disqualifies you,” he answered. “You’re quite a good-looking man, doctor, though I can not yet say with certainty if I find you sexually attractive. You are also distinctly masculine; I think that the greater that distinction the better for the purposes of this test. It seems to me a reasonable hypothesis that if I am not attracted to the female form, a manlier physique may entice me. This is only a theory, of course. But I do think that I should not dislike finding out for certain.”
Holmes stepped closer, and my head filled with the scent of his cologne. “In any case, it may not be necessary to go as far as you fear. A simple kiss should give me an accurate idea of how appealing I might find you, and we might very well be able to end our inquiries there.” As I stood there, frozen, he cupped my jaw in his hand. “Surely you would not begrudge me one kiss in the name of scientific discovery, old friend?”
I could not move, could not so much as blink as his mouth descended upon mine. His eyes remained open, as well, as our lips met. It was nothing more than a soft rub and press at first as he investigated the shape of me. My moustache brushed against the soft skin of his upper lip and I saw him give a tiny shiver at the sensation. His tongue darted out to flit briefly over my bottom lip before he pulled back, his eyes gone slightly hazy.
“Yes,” he said huskily, “I believe I liked that very much indeed. I think I might like it more, however, if you kissed me back.”
I was lost, and had been since the instant that his lips met mine; or, if I were truly honest with myself, from the moment he had so bluntly propositioned me. This would likely be my only chance to have Holmes’s body at my disposal, I reasoned. I would be a fool if I did not jump at the opportunity.
I crushed my mouth to his with more violence than I had intended, though his moan seemed to indicate that he did not mind. His arms locked around me as if to keep me from breaking away should I suddenly change my mind. There was no danger of that. I had finally got a taste of him, and I would not be satisfied now until I had gorged myself.
We stumbled to his bedroom like a pair of drunkards, unwilling to release each other long enough to open the door. I pinned Holmes against it and set my teeth and tongue to work on his ear, producing a gratifying series of startled gasps and moans. His hand groped for the doorknob and finally managed to wrench it open, nearly sending us tumbling to the floor.
The stale smoke that still hung in a cloud around his room sobered us somewhat, and by mutual consent we made our way to my room instead. Once there I closed and locked the door behind us, turning around to find Holmes watching me with clear desire.
“Astounding,” he murmured, stepping forward and reaching up to slip my jacket from my shoulders. “Even after . . . I never thought to feel anything this strongly.” His clever fingers went to work on my collar. “Like a fire inside of me, but not at all unpleasant.” My cuffs joined my collar and my jacket. “Will you kiss me again? I find that I quite enjoy it.”
I eagerly complied, working at the same time to undress Holmes as well, a task made more difficult by the way his kisses blanked out my mind. I had no idea where the man had learned to kiss so well, and if I had possessed more of my faculties I may very well have been unfairly jealous. All of my meager thoughts, however, were focused on the task of stripping him to the skin so that I might at last feel that long, sinewy body pressed up against mine.
While my hands tugged his shirttails out of his trousers, my mouth set to work discovering the glory that was his long, slender neck. I found a spot beneath his ear that made him buck and cry wildly in my arms. The prospect of a Holmes for once out of control was unbelievably erotic, and I lavished attention on the spot until I had formed a small purple mark there.
No matter how many times I see evidence of it, I am always continually surprised by Holmes’s strength, perhaps because it is only ever displayed in unexpected moments. This was no exception, as I found myself suddenly shoved forcefully back onto the bed. The rest of my clothing was swiftly discarded and Holmes all but pounced on me, our naked flesh meeting at last.
I confess that the sensation caused me to go a bit wild. For several minutes Holmes and I wrestled, both of us fighting for dominance. I had an unfair advantage, however, in my greater experience, and even my own late wife’s example in the bedroom for guidance. I reached down between his legs to skim a finger lightly over the soft skin behind his testes. He shuddered and moaned in response, and his reaction gave me the chance to reverse our positions until I was on top of him, pressing him into the gentle yield of the mattress.
I had to taste him; I thought that I might go mad if I did not. My hands skimmed over his chest, down to his stomach and beyond to grasp his swollen shaft already weeping for attention. I slithered down and exhaled a warm breath over him. I glanced up to see him still at last, watching me closely. With my eyes on his, I slowly lowered my head.
The first feeling of his rigid organ against my tongue was intoxicating. I moaned and ran my tongue up the underside of his shaft from base to tip, pausing to swirl around the leaking head. His breathing had grown ragged, and I saw that his hands had fisted in the sheets. He tasted splendid, but I wanted more than just his taste; I craved the feel of him in my mouth. When I closed around him his head fell back and a long, guttural groan escaped him.
Thrilled at his response I continued to move, letting my moustache brush against his abdomen each time I lowered my head. After several attempts I was eventually able to take him into my throat, and I found his look of almost pained ecstasy well worth the trouble. Finally I felt him begin to shake and his spine grow rigid; I swallowed him as deeply as I could as he pulsed out his release, drinking down all that spilled from the magnificent creature beneath me.
A normal man-at least, if I may be considered normal-generally has his energies and faculties drained after such an experience. However, as Holmes was extraordinary in so many other respects, I suppose I should not have been too surprised to discover that his stamina in bed was equally astounding. Only moments after he had spent himself I found myself trapped beneath him, his hot mouth trailing mind-numbingly over my body.
“That really was a most astonishing experience, Watson,” he murmured in my ear between kisses. “I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to return the favor.”
He did not wait for a response, but slid down my body like quicksilver. I expected him to simply imitate what I had done to him; instead, he spent long moments studying me until I began to shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze.
“This is returning the favor, Holmes?” I asked dryly.
He smirked up at me. “You can not be surprised, my dear doctor, that my natural curiosity extends to matters of the bedroom. And as always, I find that it is beneficial to first take a quick visual summary. Now that I have done so . . .”
His tongue began to trail, with excruciating slowness and softness, up my length. I began to tremble at the sensation, that ghost of a touch so light as to hardly be substantial at all. A sound perilously close to a whine slipped from my throat, and I fought for control. My hips shifted restlessly towards him; in response he merely moved one arm to hold them down while his other hand slid up to cradle and stroke my testes. The world was spinning, and I found myself helpless to stop it. He had slipped my foreskin back and was exploring the head of my shaft with maddening thoroughness when the tip of his tongue pressed against a spot under the tip of my prick, and stars erupted in my field of vision.
“Holmes,” I cried.
The glorious sensations stopped but for his hand still caressing me. I forced open my eyes and saw that he had raised his head and was looking at me with an odd mix of curiosity and lust.
“That,” he said slowly, “was most intriguing.” His eyes were hot, belying his lazy words. “I never imagined I might hear my name screamed in such a fashion.” He lowered his head, and I only just heard him say, “Do it again.”
His tongue pressed against that spot once more, and again my vision swam. “Holmes,” I moaned.
He made a sound like an approving purr. “Not quite a scream, but I like that, too.” Without further comment, he took me in his mouth.
The rest remains a sea of blind sensation, one touch or caress indistinguishable from the next. Holmes’s mouth on me was a pleasure greater than any I had ever known, and as much as I craved the sweet way I knew it would end I was loath to have such glorious feelings cease. Finally, however, I could hold out no longer. My climax hit me like a tidal wave, leaving me feeling dazed and empty. I was vaguely aware that Holmes had pulled away after I had finished, and I assumed that he was leaving for his own room. I was disappointed, I admit, but not surprised, when I heard him searching under the bed-some of his clothing, I thought, must have been kicked there in our passion.
I was, as is usual when I try to second-guess Holmes’s motives, mistaken.
My eyes shot open as his elegant fingers, coated in something slick, probed gently at my entrance. He was staring down at me, his eyes intense.
“I must say, there are distinct advantages to engaging in such acts with a man who keeps his medical bag beneath the bed.” He lowered his head to feather a kiss over my temple. “I have gathered a great deal of theoretical knowledge over the course of my investigation, Watson, but in practical matters I remain something of a novice; there is still much more for me to learn about this desire of mine. I shall promise to be gentle, however, and to make it as pleasurable for you as possible.”
So saying he slipped one long finger inside of me, sending shudders wracking down my spine. The feeling was surpassingly odd, his single, slender digit stroking the walls of my tight channel. However, when the tip of his finger brushed against the gland buried deep inside of me the sensation swiftly changed from odd to euphoric. It seemed as though my entire being was focused on that one blissful feeling, and on Holmes’s finger moving slowly within me.
A second finger joined the first and my eyes drifted closed. Even without the added stimulation when Holmes chanced to brush against that glorious spot, I realized that I was gaining pleasure simply from his touch. To be filled in this way was thrilling; the slide of his fingers in that most intimate place was indescribably erotic, and I could feel the response of my own eager flesh swelling once more.
His hand was twisting, those exquisitely elegant digits scissoring gently as he stretched me. I had enough knowledge of such encounters, gleaned from army barracks and medical conferences, to know what was in store for me next. Far from being apprehensive, however, as I might have thought I would be, I experienced only a breathless anticipation. Indeed, the thought of being possessed so completely by my suddenly passionate partner only made my desire grow. Soon I was writhing beneath his touch, desperate for more but uncertain how to ask.
Luckily, Holmes seemed as intuitive as always, and as adept at reading my unvoiced thoughts. He leaned down and kissed me as his fingers withdrew from my body. Moments later he took hold of my right hand and deposited a dollop of lotion onto my fingers before guiding them to his stiffened member. Taking his cue, I began to caress his swollen flesh, slicking the lotion over the length of his shaft. He broke our kiss with a groan, his eyes squeezed closed, and his breathing became erratic.
I confess I took a certain perverse pleasure in the knowledge that with a few simple touches I could push this extraordinary man to the very limits of his control.
I had not long to revel in my discovery, however; Holmes gently (and, it seemed to me, reluctantly) pulled my hand away from him and eased my legs apart to position himself at my entrance. I took a deep breath and tried to relax, knowing it would make his passage easier. Even so, when he pushed forward I had to bite my lip to hold back a cry. He felt so incredibly full inside of me, stretching me to the point of pain even with his careful preparation. I knew that he could not have progressed more than an inch, yet I felt certain that he could go no farther. I did not think that I could take any further invasion.
I was, again, mistaken. Holmes continued his slow, insistent movement, careful to give me time to adjust to his presence within me. My breathing was harsh in my own ears. I had closed my eyes, but opened them now to see him gazing down at me, question clear in his eyes. I shook my head mutely. There was discomfort, true, but having him sheathed inside me like this was glorious. I did not wish for him to stop. Fearful that there were too many emotions on my face for him to readily discern the one I most wanted to convey, I opted for a surer method of indicating my cooperation. I lifted my hips towards him, letting him slide that much deeper into me.
His eyes widened at the sensation, and I noted with a kind of fierce glee that his body was trembling. When he began to slowly withdraw, however, I feared that I had done something to hurt or displease him. I needn’t have worried; a moment later he pushed forward again, his movements gentle but undeniably certain.
It was not the same as that first penetration, when a part of me had wanted desperately to expel him again even as the rest of me had delighted in the bliss of joining. Now I had grown more accustomed to his presence, and the friction created between us by that smooth thrust thrilled nerve endings of whose existence I had been previously unaware. My back arched, my eyes widened, my breath stalled in my throat. Holmes, I could see, was similarly affected; his lips were parted on a soundless gasp, his eyes blind and staring.
“John,” he moaned, his voice strangled, and the sound of my Christian name uttered in such a way sent bold shocks of arousal through my body.
Those lips that I had often found so tempting-had I once called them thin? They were full and ripe with passion-proved irresistible now. My neck curved up and I captured his mouth in a kiss as my hands gripped his back with a strength born of desperate need. When he began to move in a steady rhythm inside of me that grip was the only thing that kept me tethered to reality; surely without it I would have floated away toward the Paradise that came closer with each successive thrust.
Our kiss never broke, the sounds we both made trapped and muffled in each other’s mouths. My erection was trapped between us and was being gently rubbed between our stomachs as we moved. I felt Holmes’s weight shift above me and a moment later his hand had wrapped around my rigid shaft, stroking me in time with his movements. It was all too much, and with a guttural cry I emptied myself once again. Before the aftershocks had passed I felt Holmes stiffen above me, heard his cry, and a sudden liquid warmth spilled forth within me.
When I came to myself again, it was with the sense of the world filtering slowly through the haze of euphoria in which I was wrapped. I was aware of Holmes’s weight on top of me, effectively pinning me to the mattress. I felt his panting breath on my neck and the evidence of my own pleasure slowly cooling between us. I recall a vague thought that we should clean ourselves, before the toll of our exertions hit me full force and I passed into the soundest sleep I have ever experienced.
Part 2