Sherlock Holmes was not a sexual creature. At least, that’s what he had believed since the time when he was fourteen and an unattractive schoolmaster awkwardly explained the mechanics of human reproduction. It had sounded so vulgar and undignified, and was certainly nothing that held any interest for the aspiring chemist.
In adulthood, Holmes became a singularly handsome creature, and often attracted the attention of both sexes. Whereas women tended to notice his dark, flashing eyes and agile grace, his athletic prowess and intense focus brought unexpected flutters to the hearts of men. But, as he had no knowledge of courtship rituals, Holmes remained ignorant of the attempts made to capture his fancy, and continued to devote himself solely to the pursuit of science and reason.
Moving in with John Watson brought him slightly closer to normal human relations, and Holmes watched with mild interest the way his friend and colleague would react to his pretty female clients. A flattering comment, a sympathetic smile, a glint of desire. While Holmes appreciated his friend’s social graces, he was far too concerned with facts to notice whether a woman was beautiful. That remained Watson’s department, and something he associated with a primal weakness he himself had been born without.
Then one day Holmes came home and found a tattered cardboard box on the table in the sitting room. Next to it was a note in Mrs. Hudson’s handwriting: “Dr. Watson—Removed this from attic to protect from moths.” The box lid was worn and stretched, and fit loosely over the top. Holmes knew immediately this must be Watson’s army memorabilia, the existence of which he had long known but had never seen. He flicked the lid off the box and peered curiously inside.
There were documents and medals, letters and photographs, sketches and the occasional talisman. Holmes perused the photographs of men sitting around a camp, standing in front of a hospital, toasting drinks in foreign taverns, their individual faces made more distinctive by the fact that they were all clad in the same uniform. When he found a photograph of a young John Watson, standing proudly in his army drabs, hat tucked underneath one arm, Holmes felt a rush of admiration. He must remember to tell Watson what a dashing soldier he made.
He was about to replace the lid when something else caught his eye. Peeking out from underneath a stack of letters was a corner of paper that bore the drawing of a human foot. Holmes had never known his friend to be artistically inclined, so he carefully dug past the letters and pulled out a small cache of sketches. When his eyes landed on the complete subject, he caught his breath. It was Watson lying nude upon a settee. The deduction happened in an instant, and Holmes knew Watson must have had a comrade who was an amateur artist, and had asked his friend to sit for him while he studied the male form. The sketches varied in style, though Watson’s position remained the same in each. He was resting comfortably on his back, his right leg drawn up at the knee and his left hand dangling casually off the edge. His right arm was thrown back behind him, and his expression appeared to mirror the concentration of the artist. Holmes’s eyes followed the feather-stroke lines of Watson’s broad torso, the suggestion of abdominal muscles rendered by light shadows, the dark curlicues describing the hair over his groin, and finally his phallus, resting long and thick over his left thigh.
Holmes stared for a long time at the sketches, fascinated by the talent of the artist and the beauty of Watson’s body. He was unaware of the flush that coloured his cheeks, but not the unfamiliar stirrings that began to circle his nether regions. In fact, he was so distracted by the feeling that he absently replaced the box lid without replacing the sketches, and sat down in the settee. His breathing had become shallow, but not unpleasantly so, as it seemed to arise from a stimulating physical urgency he could not yet name. But he felt instinctively that he should lie down, and in doing this he unwittingly assumed the same position in which Watson had lain for the artist.
Holmes closed his eyes. He passed his hand over his genitals and observed the prickles of warmth that shot through his stomach. He noted that the sensation was heightened when he thought of Watson. Watson in his military uniform. Watson in the sketches.
Holmes cupped his hand over his cock, which was straining against his trousers. The harder he pressed, the larger it grew until the chafing became exquisitely unbearable. He opened his flies to relieve the pressure. When his swollen prick bounced into his hand his lips parted in a gasp from the thrill of raw contact.
Watson tending injured men. Watson winning a fistfight.
Holmes let his long fingers play over his cockstand, brushing the underside gently at first, then teasing the slit and finally closing around the base.
Watson at the Turkish baths.
Oh God, he grew another half inch harder at the thought of Watson’s body glistening under a sheen of sweat when he exited the steam room. He also suddenly remembered the soft moans of pleasure Watson occasionally emitted while a young Turkish lad kneaded his muscles.
Holmes’s breathing deepened when he began to pump his hand up and down, pulling with increasing deliberation as he thought of nothing but him…him…him…
Watson shedding his coat. Watson loosening his collar. Watson wiping the sweat from the back of his neck.
Holmes opened his legs wider and deepened his strokes. He grasped the back of the settee with his other hand, balancing himself for the steady the jerk of his hips.
Watson slipping out of his braces. Watson wiggling out of his shirt. Watson’s arousal bulging behind his flies as he unbuckled his belt.
Holmes let his head drop backwards and his mouth fall open, lustful moans occasionally emerging behind the fervid pants that followed the rapid movement of his hand.
Watson staring at Holmes. Watson touching his own cock. Watson stroking himself while he watched.
Holmes did not know how intensely he was about to climax, but he knew that something was building within him, and the harder and faster he stroked the closer he would get to it.
Watson’s trembling body. Watson’s mouth. Watson’s hands. Watson’s legs. Watson’s chest. Watson’s cock. Watson’s cock. Watson’s cock.
When it finally happened, Holmes heard himself gasp, but did not hear the feral cry that followed, for his brilliant mind had focused so intently on the image of his best friend that he imagined it was Watson’s cries he heard as his thick white seed spilled over his knuckles.
Yes, yes…that’s right, Holmes…make me come…make me come just like that…
Holmes heard Watson’s voice as clearly as if he was in the room, and he nodded in response and approval of the sensations that overtook his body. He tilted his hips upwards and tightened his grip, wrenching another jolt of ecstasy so powerful he saw stars behind his eyes. Now it was his own voice again in breathless response.
Oh my God…Watson… it’s coming…I’m coming…harder and…harder…
The muscles in his buttocks were quivering from the effort to remain suspended as he pushed his pelvis further towards the sky. His musky semen overflowed the cracks between his fingers and dribbled over his stomach.
“Yes…please,” he groaned between clenched teeth.
He lowered his hips to the settee and twisted his body from side to side as if to wring every last molecule of pleasure from himself.
And then the cacophony of sensations within his body grew quiet, and only his chest remained animated, quickly rising and falling in attempt to catch his breath. He was too stunned to move, and his hand remained locked around his cock as it slowly softened into the sticky, matted hairs of his groin.
Had he climaxed two seconds sooner, he might have heard the front door of 221B