Disclaimer: The characters depicted below are now public
domain but it would be very remiss of me not to mention that Sherlock
Holmes and Doctor John Watson were in fact created by the late and
great Sir Arthur Conan Dolye. No disrespect is intended.
Summary: Nocturnal dalliances.
Warnings: This is slash. Interactions of the same sex
Thanks: To Dana for her editorial suggestions.
Comments: Are welcome and can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org
Lying very still, I wait until I hear the familiar sounds of
Holmes' breathing level out, signaling his final descent into what I
hope will be a dreamless and undisturbed sleep before I gather my
nightshirt about me and then rise carefully from his narrow bed.
The room is cold and I immediately miss the heat of his body, the
strength of his arms and press of his flesh against my own. He had
been almost insatiable tonight, I muse - ravenous in a way that I
rarely have the good fortune to enjoy, and which made me truly wish
that I could stay with him instead of having to steal away before the
In fact, my dearest appears so peaceful in sleep that it is easy
for me to forget that the man who now lies bonelessly sated is the
same one whose mind is constantly working, who is forever challenging
and conquering the criminal element of our fair city without fear, or
much to my aggravation, his own safety.
I stand shivering as I look down at him, thanking the Heavens that
I have him as I marvel at his undeniable grace and the usually sharp
features that are now notably softened with slumber. He does not
move, remaining blissfully unaware of my gaze while I make certain
that I have not inadvertently woken him. As soon as I am assured that
I have not, I then bend quietly to retrieve my dressing gown from the
floor so that I might ward myself against the growing chill of my
bones. I continue my vigil over Holmes as I reach down, but my
searching hand encounters something other than just our customary
collection of gowns and slippers beside the bed.
Standing up right again, and on closer inspection I realise that
what I have found is the tallow stick Holmes had used to ease our
joining tonight. I shiver at the thought of it and how very
adventurous he has become over time. For just holding the rigid
length now sends another thrill of excitement through me as I recall
the sight of him pressing his sweet lips to its tip before he covered
it with salve and then slowly pushed it inside of me. I had closed my
eyes as he had, preferring at the time to give myself completely over
to his desires and to simply wait until he had satisfied his
curiosity. Such a commentary he had provided for me while I allowed
his explorations that it had hardly been necessary for me to see what
he was doing. But even though I had not seen it occur I know from the
ache deep inside of me that the object in my hands bore the evidence
of coupling and it would have to be disposed of before morning.
There is no question of responsibility; I would take care of it as
I always did, and as Holmes trusted me to do so.
Given the nature of our most intimate relationship, we are both
well aware that the utmost discretion must always be observed. To me,
Sherlock Holmes is my dearest friend and companion, but to the rest
of humanity, he is the world's only consulting detective and I, his
loyal and ever-present biographer. For both our sakes, our public
faces must be maintained at all times. No hint of true feelings can
ever seep beyond these walls unless we wish to spend out latter years
in separate cells of Reading Goal. And it is with only that in mind
that I don my dressing gown without further hesitation, concealing
the stick in one of its deep pockets as I cross to the wash stand.
The candle Holmes had lit when we had retired for the night still
flickers from it's perch atop the dresser near by, providing me with
sufficient light with which to complete my ablutions, and once I have
I lift it carefully from its resting place and prepare to leave.
Turning back to the man on the bed one more time before I must
leave him, I am momentarily disappointed to discover hooded gray eyes
watching me. "Sleep well my dear, Watson," he whispers to me as those
same eyes flutter and close once more.
I don't reply, choosing instead to accept his well wishes in
silence. I turn to then raise the latch on the door and slip
soundlessly from his room.
Back to Sherlock Holmes Fiction.
Website Design and Code Alia .