The telephone exchange, never the most reliable, was inoperative when I returned to the Downs at the end of Hilary term. I did not wish to wait until the lines were restored to announce to Holmes that I was visiting, and in the past he’d never seemed to mind my dropping by unexpectedly, so I set off on my bicycle not an hour after I’d arrived home for the cottage which I considered my second home, and a second institution of higher learning as well.
The ground was soft with recent rains, but not sodden. I dismounted from my bicycle before I reached the door of the cottage, and examined the footprints on the ground, to see what I could determine about the goings-on around the cottage before entering. I saw Mrs. Hudson’s footprints coming down the path and abruptly disappearing where they intersected with tire tracks: it was not her usual day to do the shopping, so most likely she was off to visit someone. Her footprints outward overlaid Watson’s venturing towards the cottage. So Watson had come for a visit and chatted with Mrs. Hudson a while before she had left.
Mrs. Hudson seemed fondest of Watson. She never commented, as Holmes and I did, on his simplicity, his occasional downright dim-wittedness. Frankly, I often wondered if his visits were just for her benefit; Holmes, though he’d called Watson a friend for so many years, seemed not to benefit from his company at all, as far as I could see. I had not been surprised, those few years ago, when Watson and Mrs. Hudson had both remarked on what a worthy companion I was for Holmes; an intellectual equal was what he really needed around.
I approached the kitchen entrance to the cottage, and through the door, I could hear two male voices. I paused, then decided I would not let myself in, not there. Instead, I would play a little game, seeing if I could enter through the French doors into the main room, sneak upstairs, and then give them both a surprise by announcing my presence as I bounded down the stairs. I wondered if I could even convince Holmes that I’d come in through the upstairs window – a feat I don’t think I could have actually managed, as there was nothing under the upstairs windows to climb up on; a ladder at least would be in order, though a grappling hook would be more exciting.
My boots would cause a ruckus to remove indoors, so I pulled them off and left them on the terrace. The French doors were unlocked; I knew exactly the point at which the hinges would begin to squeak, and squeezed myself inside short of that distance. In stocking feet I moved silently past Holmes’ desk and the furniture collected around the hearth. I heard Holmes and Watson’s voices more clearly now; they were speaking in low, sly tones to each other, perhaps about some exploit from years past.
I kept to the far edges of the stairs as I climbed, avoiding the creakiness of the middle. But just as I was at the top, I heard the two men moving from the kitchen into the main room – and then toward the stairs! Holmes must have been bringing Watson up to the room he kept as a chemistry lab, to show him some experiment or other (the results of which Watson would surely not comprehend). I had intended to hide myself in that very room, but the door was shut, and I did not trust myself to open it silently. Instead, I dove through the open bedroom door.
From there, I quickly assessed my options: I could hide under the bed, but the dust bunnies might cause me to sneeze and give myself away. There was a closet, and an armoire, but I did not know whether there was room inside either one for me. There was also a folding screen, which did not serve to divide the room in any way, only sat in the corner. Perhaps it had some sentimental value, which was why Holmes allowed it to take up space. There was barely enough room for me to crouch behind it – I had reached my full height by this time, and it was too short for me to hide behind it while standing.
At first I didn’t think I could ensconce myself there in time, except Holmes and Watson were taking their time climbing the stairs. Once I did see them, however, all thought of giving Holmes a start fled my mind completely, for the surprise I felt seeing him and Watson could not be surpassed.
By the time they stumbled into the bedroom, both men were partially undressed, jackets and waistcoats nowhere to be seen, braces loose at their sides, ties discarded and collars askew. No wonder they had taken so long to ascend the stairs; still they were fumbling at each other, unbuttoning each other’s shirts in a most inefficient way.
Between the half-folded panels of the screen, I could see everything, and thus I felt that I myself must be quite exposed. But the two men were well distracted by each other, and as they continued to undress, I gradually grew more confident in my concealment, for they certainly would never have done such things as they were doing if they’d had the slightest inkling that they were being watched.
I had never seen a naked man with my own eyes before, and these two did not resemble the idealized sculptures or illustrations I’d seen. Each man had made his own way into middle age: Holmes, in his youth perhaps called “lithe,” was now resolutely gaunt, and his face and hands weathered. Watson was a man of naturally broad shoulders and chest, but his belly had caught up in recent years – he’d clearly not picked up on Holmes’ tendency to miss meals. They had earned their mature bodies, but despite their imperfections, both had a certain charm; certainly at this moment they seemed not only to accept each other but to delight. As they plopped down on to the bed together, they groped at one another’s bodies with what I can only describe as a hunger. Each of them had between his legs a half-standing member, not limp and discreetly small like those of Hellenic statuary but firm and growing still more prominent as the two of them rolled about and rubbed their bodies together.
It had not occurred to me that Holmes could ever be susceptible to such indelicate desires, but there was no doubt now that Watson ignited something distinctly carnal in him. He extricated himself from Watson’s arms only long enough to open the drawer of the bedside table and take from it a tin. I recognized the label: it was petroleum jelly. He showed it to Watson, but did not open it yet, just tossed it on the bed.
“I’ve been craving your prick for weeks,” he confessed breathily, returning his attention entirely to Watson, handling him in that place he was referring to.
Watson asked, “In your mouth or your arse?”
“Both.” Their teasing banter was punctuated by kisses. “Have you been enjoying the favors of any of the lovely young things in London?” Holmes asked this teasingly, and stroked Watson’s chest hair as he did so.
“Not a one. I saved everything for you, which is why I’m as pent up as I am, and ready to give you what-for.”
This prompted a low chuckle from Holmes, who guided and directed Watson to sit against the headboard. Holmes could then lay on his back with his head in Watson’s lap. Having settled in, he – to my utter shock – guided Watson’s half-erect instrument right into his mouth! And not only that: he sucked slowly at it for some time, savoring it with his lips and tongue, and made noises like it was delicious, as though sucking and licking it was just the most wonderful thing. It grew more substantial as he worked, until he could fit only perhaps half of it comfortably in his mouth. Watson lamented then, “I remember when all it took was a stiff breeze to give me the most rampant cockstand.”
Holmes let Watson’s member slide out of his mouth, a little trail of saliva still stretched across to it from his lip. “I would not trade your patient experience for the hair-trigger fervor of yesteryear,” he assured Watson, and then resumed his sucking. He began to stimulate himself as well, not intensely, just pushing his foreskin back and forth with thumb and two fingers as he gradually got himself into a comparable state of excitement.
As he did this, he opened his legs and bent his knees, and Watson, after wetting his middle finger thoroughly in his own mouth, leaned over Holmes’ splayed body and placed that wet fingertip…well, into Holmes’ fundament, if I can be quite frank. I want to say that this was the most depraved thing I had ever witnessed, and so I will say it, but I cannot deny that there was a tenderness to it that I never would have imagined could exist. Watson stroked Holmes’ hair with his free hand, and Holmes made contented little noises, and sometimes he would take Watson out of his mouth just to smile or giggle at him, or to receive a gentle kiss.
But when Watson wiggled his fingertips with more vigor, Holmes’ thighs quivered and he cried out; by this time, he had worked Watson into the most intense state of excitement, and so as his instrument slipped from between Holmes’ lips, it sprang up and stood straight out from his body.
Holmes sat up just then, as if he’d remembered something important, but then he only tilted himself forward and got on his knees and elbows. He waggled his narrow behind at Watson, saying, “Please give it to me now, you’ve no idea how badly I need it.”
“What was it you were just saying about patience,” Watson scolded him with a grin as he heaved himself up onto his knees. He tucked himself in behind Holmes and said, “You’re not nearly ready.” Taking up the tin, he opened it and greased his fingers with the contents. Then, just when I thought I could not be any more astonished, he inserted those fingers into Holmes, who opened his mouth with a silent cry.
“I need to take lots of time to prepare you very carefully, don’t I?” Watson said, as his fingers slid leisurely in and out.
Holmes’ response was a gasp: “Yes.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’ve got such a big prick.” Holmes seemed a little shy about saying those words, and yet also appeared to relish them as he uttered them.
“That’s right,” Watson murmured. What he did next with his member, I did not think it was actually possible to do, from an anatomical standpoint. After all, Holmes had been having trouble getting all of it in his mouth, and now he was going to try fitting it all in there? But I could see Holmes’ expression while Watson did it, and thus I learned that it was not only possible but pleasurable. Never had I seen such bliss on Holmes’ face.
At first, Holmes moved more than Watson did, pushing himself back and forth on Watson’s great instrument, crying, “Yes, oh, at last, yes.” Soon, however, Watson latched onto his rhythm, and began to rock and thrust in perfect synchronization, and once he was doing this with some force and speed, Holmes lowered himself so his head was resting on his arms, and simply basked in it, grunting and humming with the enjoyment of being very thoroughly plowed. Watson was mostly quiet, but occasionally his jaw would fall open as he delivered three or five particularly forceful thrusts in a row.
My own jaw was hanging free as well, I admit. I was astounded by every aspect of the spectacle before me. For the three years I had known Holmes, he had been the soul of propriety, never so much as letting on that carnal matters even existed, but now here he was, behaving in an uncontrollably lascivious manner. Even when I was utterly perplexed by what was happening or why anyone would want to do it, I could not look away, for every moment of his entanglement with Watson was fascinating.
Holmes called a temporary halt, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding himself up. He asked to be allowed to lie fully on his front, with Watson covering him. Watson complied, naturally. I found it strangely satisfying to see how his belly fit perfectly against the small of Holmes’ back as he seated himself fully in Holmes’ body. He worked diligently at his task, but it seemed that he found it more physically taxing than before, for it was not long before he retreated, and asked if Holmes might like to climb on top of him.
“Just for a little while,” Holmes said. “My knees aren’t what they used to be, either.”
I was rapt as Holmes mounted Watson’s supine form and took hold of his member, steadying it as he eased himself down onto it. But while that was a shocking sight to behold, what made my heart pound even faster was the unabashed adoration Watson was displaying; he seemed to worship Holmes’ body, his hands by turns gripping and caressing every part they could reach while he murmured hot-blooded but tender endearments.
Reveling in Watson’s adulation, Holmes tilted his head back and rode him at a leisurely pace, placing his hands over Watson’s, touching and being touched. He had not been lying, though, when he’d warned about the brevity of their coupling this way. He begged for another change, lying on his side while Watson cradled him bodily from behind, and they continued at it.
It seemed, in fact, that Watson put Holmes in every voluptuous posture, and they never returned to one they had already tried when they rearranged themselves. But always Watson’s hands were strong but reverent, his voice soothing but provocative. “Is that good?” he would ask. “Do I feel good?” And always Holmes would answer in the affirmative, and give himself up utterly. No matter what their orientation, every time Watson buried himself to the hilt, Holmes uttered the most intense noise of gratification. He just seemed to adore having it go all the way up him. And whenever they were situated in such a way that they could get their faces near to one another, they kissed, sloppily, tongues extended and lips smacking.
Finally, Holmes lay flat on his back, and with Watson’s assistance lifted his legs so that his ankles could rest on Watson’s shoulders. Watson went back to the pot of petroleum jelly and applied some more to himself, then gripped Holmes around the knees, and after inserting himself once again, pumped Holmes at a steady pace.
Holmes was being quite noisy now, gripping the sheets beneath him as he gasped and cooed. “Watson, oh, can you keep this rhythm just a moment more, and delve as deeply, ah, as deeply as you can, and I shall spend.”
Watson’s rhythm did not falter as he replied, “Yes, my dear, please, so I can watch you.”
“Oh, it’s so close, I can feel it.” Holmes squirmed and tugged at himself for a minute or so more until he coaxed out a few thin pulses of milky fluid. While this happened, he seemed to become delirious with the pleasure of it; he lifted his legs straight up in the air, and his toes curled, and he made so much noise that I was embarrassed for him.
Moments later, Watson’s eyes rolled back as they slid shut. He grasped Holmes’ legs, gave a heavy groan, and pushed one final time before he relaxed his tensed arms and thighs, and uttered a gratified sigh.
Holmes tilted his head to one side, seeming a bit startled then, as if he’d woken from a dream. He put his hand over his reddened face and laughed. “Oh dear,” he said, “I became quite the saucy little trollop just then, didn’t I? Begging to be filled up and so on.”
“Every word was music to my ears,” Watson assured him, his hands skimming up and down Holmes’ legs.
When Watson pulled out of his body, Holmes whimpered so sharply that I winced myself. Watson moved Holmes’ legs from his shoulders carefully, arranging the two of them into a limp-limbed heap of flushed, glowing bodies on the bed. Then, with one arm, Watson could just reach the silver cigarette case on the bedside table, and he lit two cigarettes, handing Holmes one.
They smoked in silence, taking turns cradling and stroking each other.
“When did Mrs. Hudson say she’d be back?” Watson asked, after a while.
“Oh, not for hours yet.”
“Enough time for a nap, then.”
After stubbing out their cigarettes, they lay quietly in each other’s arms, but did not settle in to sleep right away. I had some time, while they laid there, relaxed and sated, to think about what I had witnessed. How playful they had been with each other! How naturally they had performed what I had understood to be the most unnatural of acts. My entire view of Watson had changed – never again would I see him as the bumbling biographer. He may never have come to master the science of deduction, but to give Holmes such pure affection that he became willing to let his guard down completely and give in to sensual desires, that was an art that surely no one else had ever dared to attempt, let alone to master.
It almost made me pity Watson, in a new way: whereas before, I had felt sorry for his lack of intellect, now I instead regretted that his true gift, his passionate heart, could never be known to the world, invaluable as it was to the world’s greatest detective.
At last, I heard two distinct sets of snores, and determined that the two men had fallen into a contented sleep, and so it was safe to move from behind the screen. It was only then, when I stood up, that I realized how wet and tingly I was between my legs. It was not an entirely new feeling, but so much more intense than I’d ever experienced before. I wished I’d had a place to go where I felt secure in addressing the situation, but I did not. I had to get out of the house as quickly as possible, and leave no indication that I had been there. I silently extricated myself from the narrow space behind the screen, tiptoed past the sleeping men, and crept down the stairs. Holmes had inadvertently taught me a valuable lesson that day, about the importance of being judicious when it came to playing practical jokes.