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Fortius Quo Fidelius, part II

Holmes rummaged behind his wardrobe and pulled out a strongbox covered with faded maroon cloth. He took the key from the chain he wore around his waist and unlocked it. I peered inside.

On the left-hand side there were neat rows of bottles, some of them labeled by his hand and others bearing the formal inscriptions of a chemist. They were oils, creams and salves of differing scents and provenance, some of which had come from as far away as southeast Asia. Next to those lay another, smaller box in which he kept bundles of lambskin sheaths, which Holmes explained had been soaked in a homemade chemical solution that acted as both a lubricant and a germicide. In the right corner was a curious pile of objects, only some of which were familiar to me. I recognized the handcuffs and scarves, of course, but the shiny rings, clamps and rods suggested more exotic habits than I was accustomed.

He was as well-equipped for sex as he was for solving crime.

“The art of sexual congress is not to be taken lightly, Watson,” he lectured as he lit a small, bedside candelabra. “One must appeal to all the senses in order to exact the most optimal effects.” He placed a small bundle of incense that smelled of lavender and cedar on top of his bureau, and lit that as well.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping into a seductive purr, “let us see if we cannot bring you to a more satisfying release.”

As if in a dream, I watched Holmes saunter across the room and approach me.

The curiosity behind his expression shifted to intention when he took my face in his hands. His desire-ripened lips surrounded mine, drawing them open and with fluid and assertive ease. His tongue seeped into my mouth like syrup, curling around my tongue, withdrawing, then chasing it again, each time igniting a delectable sting in the pit of my stomach.

I fastened my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer. He responded by deepening the kiss around a soft groan that ruptured in the back of his throat.

My previous, unfulfilling encounters flashed one final time in my memory before they permanently disappeared. For the rest of my life I would consider the moment Sherlock Holmes first kissed me as the beginning of my sexual discovery.

I pushed his dressing gown from his shoulders, and it draped heavily at his feet. He left one hand on my face while the other flew over the buttons of my waistcoat and then my shirt. As soon as I felt the garments loosen, I tore them from my body and pulled Holmes down to the bed with me. I was aching to look at him, to touch him everywhere, to incite an unending stream of obscene noises from him, to love a man the way I always wanted to.

But Holmes was in every instance a meticulous creature who did nothing by hurries or halves. He straddled my hips and secured me between his powerful thighs, preventing me from moving underneath him.

He allowed me to unbutton his own waistcoat and shirt, though I became too enraptured by the vision of my hands sliding over his pectoral muscles to bother with their removal. My trousers cinched tightly around my cock when I toyed with his nipples and he bit his lip in restrained delight.

But as soon as I caught sight of the growing prominence straining against his own flies, my trembling hands were pawing at his waistband. I moaned with frustration when he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with a wicked grin. He leaned down as if to kiss me again, but turned his face at the last moment. I inhaled sharply when the tip of his tongue captured my earlobe and scooped it between his teeth.

“Patience, my dear,” he whispered into my ear, and he continued to trail his pliant lips just over the surface of my skin, stopping now and again to press a kiss to my neck.

He clasped a single hand around my wrists and swept the other past my lower ribcage. I held my breath as his fingertips trickled down my stomach, circled my cock and paused over my flies. I pushed my hips towards him expectantly, but his hand traveled instead to his own trousers and he opened them very slowly, one button at a time.

There was a thicket of dark brown hair. I swallowed.

There was the purple tip of his cock. My breathing quickened.

There was the rest of it, long and lean and with an elegant upward curve at the tip.

“Oh God,” I gasped in lustful admiration.

I strained against his grip, the blood now almost drained from my hands. He paid no heed, and grazed his lips over my chest before he opened my flies at the same languid pace he had done his own. When he finally reached into my trousers my cock nearly jumped out, weeping and fully distended, into his hand.

I thought our pricks jutting out beyond our rumpled clothing was the most impossibly erotic sight I'd ever seen until I shifted my vision to his smoldering stare. His shimmering black eyes challenged me to ignore his long fingers snaking around our shafts, and held me under their spell even when his eyelids momentarily fell and he permitted himself a soft mewl of pleasure.

“Tell me, Watson,” murmured Holmes, his voice so rich and sensual that I hardened by another half-inch at least, “have you ever come inside another man?”

“N-no,” I stammered, fighting to maintain the power of speech. “I wanted to, but he—he said he wanted me to and then, and then he—“ I left off when he leant down to scrape his teeth across my collarbone.

“Go on,” he hummed, his face inches from mine.

“He told me it was…undignified.” These weren’t precisely the words that Meyer had used, but I saw no reason to expound on the unpleasant aftermath of that particular liaison.

“Ah,” Holmes said comprehensively. He raised himself up and skimmed off his trousers and underclothes. I quickly followed suit.

“Do you think it’s undignified?” he asked me when we realigned our fully nude bodies upon the bed.

“Not in the least,” I replied around his dripping wet kisses.

“If I asked you to come inside me, would you?”

He must have known that these very words were every bit as titillating at his touch.

“It would only be a matter of how quickly we could undress,” I said.

“And if I wanted to come inside of you, that would be all right, too?” We were tangling freely now, leaving streaks of pre-ejaculate over each other’s stomachs.

“No objections whatsoever. Although I’ve never...” I needn’t have told him. His sly, knowing smile told me he already deduced the limits of my experience.

Holmes kissed his way to my midsection and wrapped one arm around my waist. He’s going to take his time about this, I realized as he cupped my sac in his hand and skittered his fingers across my perineum. But I was seconds away and there was nothing I could do.

“I’m going to come,” I whimpered.

He looked up casually.

“Please,” I begged him.

He closed his hand around my prick, ran his thumb over my crown and in three tight strokes, I climaxed. I arched out of his embrace and clung to the sheets, stretching my body as far as I could to maximize the torrents of pleasure that raced through me.

When I recovered myself I opened my eyes and saw Holmes was leaning over me, grinning broadly.

 “So. Watson. Your expeditious nature presents a challenge.”

He climbed over me, went to his strongbox and extracted two objects. One of them was a shiny ring. The other was a tapered rod of similar length to a candle. Intrigued as I was, it was difficult to pry my eyes away from his beautiful cock, still unspent and bouncing restlessly with his every movement.

“What are these?” I asked him when he returned to my side.

“This is for you,” he answered, sliding the ring over my member and pushing it to the base. “And this,” he said, holding up the rod and covering it with oil, “will come in handy later.”

“When will that be?”

“That, my dear, should be patently obvious.”

I already felt the twinges of a renewed arousal when he pulled me on top of him. After two orgasms of my own I was dying to witness what would no doubt be the profound sight of him entering into his own bliss. I kissed him on the mouth, across his chin and down his neck.

“You must tell me if you experience any numbing or pain,” he said thickly, closing his eyes and gently pushing my head towards his groin.

I nodded absently, lowered my head and swiped my tongue across his length. The answering moan from above compelled me to take him fully into my mouth and start bobbing vigorously, expecting to bring him off in quick fashion. But the warning pressure of two firm hands on my shoulders reminded me to pace myself. So I tried to mimic his technique by ministering his flesh from various angles, alternating between tonguing and suction, until I was inspired to add some flourishes of my own.

“Ah, my boy, that’s exactly right,” he breathed.

My spirit soared at this encouragement, and I squeezed his thighs and worked even harder to please him. After several minutes I became aware that the ring he put on me had tightened considerably. When I looked down at myself I saw that my member had turned three shades of red and was pointing insistently towards the ceiling.

“Splendid,” said Holmes, his gaze following mine. “It looks as if you’re quite ready.”

He raised his eyebrows in silent question, which I answered with an eager nod. He sat up and rolled me onto my stomach.

I was suddenly nervous.

I grabbed two fistfuls of sheets, tightly shut my eyes and tensed my body in anticipation. But instead of a probing flash of pain, I felt two hands firmly but gently uncurling my fingers and coaxing them flat against the mattress.

Next his warm hard body was on top of mine. He propped himself on his forearms and rutted his satiny cock inside the crevice of my backside. I wiggled my hips to increase the contact between us, bringing soft, aching groans from him that gratified my need to know that he might lose himself in sensation, too.

And then the wet tip of his tongue touched the top of my spine. He dragged it down my back, awakening a new set of nerves with each vertebra, parted my cheeks and inserted it just inside my tiny entrance. My spine turned to jelly when he closed his hot mouth over it and sucked sharply. The subsequent fluttering of his tongue sent a spray of delicate sparks into my stomach, both stimulating me and enticing me to relax.

I heard him take a bottle from the bedside table and upend it into his hand. He pushed a moistened finger inside me and swirled it in lazy circles before pumping it in and out with slow, sensual ease. The addition of a second digit, and then a third was met with more resistance, but he persisted with obliging patience, suspending his motion when my muscle closed again.

I slowly opened up to him, and little by little the tension melted from my body as I blossomed into such a state of want that my every nerve vibrated with the need to be filled. When his scissoring fingers finally reached my prostate, I became so enraptured by the bright euphoria that resulted from his light pinches, I forgot the pain entirely and tried to push more deeply into his touch.

“You’ve done this to yourself more than once, haven’t you?” His words scuttled over the top of my ear, sending another wave of gooseflesh down my back.

I nodded and dropped my head in slight embarrassment.

“You needn’t feel shame, Watson. Every man deserves to know where he can find the secret to his ultimate pleasure. I discovered mine when I was twelve years old.”

I tried to imagine a much younger Holmes touching himself, his boyish face delighted and jubilant as he squirmed over his hand.

“Take me,” I ordered him. “All of me. Now.”

He pulled his fingers out with a throaty chuckle. There was a momentary pause as he fitted himself with one of his lambskin sheaths, and warmed it with a few routine strokes of his hand. And then I felt him cautiously breaching my entrance, in and out, testing its flexibility and increasing in pace after he felt me beginning to yield.

He placed one hand carefully over the scar on my shoulder. With his mouth hovering just above the nape of my neck, he started to rotate his hips over my backside. I suppressed a cry when a spike of pain shot through my stomach. He had more girth than I had expected.

Sensing my discomfort, Holmes briefly grasped my erection and diverted my attention to the part of me that had already bloomed into full readiness. I listened to the moist friction of our raw flesh and the provocative sounds of our accelerated breathing until pleasure overtook pain once more.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered from behind me.

“No… it feels good,” I exhaled, and reached behind me to grasp his leg in assurance. “So good…”

We were moving in synch now, rocking back and forth with increasing deliberation, our joining becoming more complete with every stroke. I boldly pushed myself to my knees and arched my back, causing him to penetrate me further.

Yes…” he hissed.

And then all the elements of the room converged at once—the powerful aromas of masculinity and lubrication mingling with the earthy scents of lavender and cedar, the low illumination of burning candles throwing erotic shadows upon the wall, the sweet smoky taste of Holmes coating the inside of my mouth, the sound of us grunting and grinding together over the rhythm of the creaking mattress—and we were making love as fully as two men possibly could.

Were it not for the ring I would have exploded any number of times already. But the feather-light touch of his fingers brushing the underside of my cock only caused it to swell more proudly into his hand. I called out in affirmation, and he pressed his brow into my shoulder.

“I want you on your back,” Holmes panted, “so I can see you.”

We momentarily detached so I could lower myself to the mattress. The first thing I saw when I rolled towards him was a gaze of such unabashed need that I couldn’t pull him inside me fast enough.

After a few adjustments we found our rhythm again. The newly added pleasure of watching expressions of unbridled lust cross his features nearly drove me wild. I held nothing back as I sank my fingers into his thighs, opened my mouth and let my savage moans compete with his.

As if on cue, the shiny metal rod he had taken from the strong box rolled towards me. He picked it up and handed it to me without a word—as predicted, the timing for its use had become abundantly clear. I reached around his backside and pushed the narrow end well inside of him. When he raised his head and pushed out a strangled cry, I felt the first inklings of my release beginning to slowly build in the bottom of my stomach.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” he chanted, the guttural cries jolting out of him as he slammed into me again and again. He grasped my cock and stroked me at the same rate I impaled him with the slick rod, and we fervently writhed and meshed, impelling ourselves and each other towards the final peak.

When Holmes started to come his voice cracked into a single piercing moan and he began to quake. I felt him jerk inside me as he ground his hips into mine, his body shaking more violently as it purged him of its release and launched him into a sublime oblivion. For an extraordinary moment, the grip of it became so powerful that he seized and stopped, pitching forward and clenching his fist around my cock as though he were hanging on for dear life. He continued to climax even after his hand reanimated and he doubled the tempo of his strokes.

When he pulled the ring from me, I was entirely undone.

The first surge of my own orgasm pushed all the air from my lungs. The waves of pleasure that had been passing through me with increasing rapidity crested into sharp peaks and bounced down my spine, wracking my body with such dynamic convulsions that I could do little more than gasp and choke and stutter as I thrust deliriously into his hand.

When I was finally able to call out to the heavens, Holmes followed my lead, a low, deep sigh draining out of him before the shaking subsided and he eventually reached stillness. He carefully slid from my body and collapsed onto his back.

“The Greeks would have been proud,” I said as I struggled to catch my breath.

He laughed and panted alongside me.

*          *          *

Holmes was, of course, nothing like the men I’d been with before him. He was as passionate as he was patient, tender as he was intense. For the next two weeks, we ventured into the bedroom at every possible chance, and we never made love the same way twice. He had learned to read my body so well that whether I had playfully tugged at his sleeve or grabbed his lapels and pushed him against the wall, he always knew the best way to satisfy us both.

I wonder if he felt the moment my affectionate regard for him turned into love, when my hand curved around the crown of his head, and I buried my face in his hair and knew there was no one else in the world I wanted to be with. I wonder if he knew how those final chaste kisses we shared before falling asleep thrilled me as much as our lovemaking. I wonder if he ever saw me regretfully touch the empty spot next to me the following morning, wishing just once that I would find him there when I awoke.

With Holmes I found everything I’d ever wanted in a friend, a colleague and a partner. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with him. But the fear of jeopardizing our perfect relations prevented me from a full confession, so sure was I that he would laugh in my face or dismiss me entirely—never a single word of sentiment had passed his lips since we met.

Then one night when we were feverishly entwined in a high-backed chair in the sitting room, he came as close to voicing his feelings as I thought he ever would.

“Oh God, Watson,” he moaned from the brink, throwing back his head and clutching my backside, “I could stay inside you forever...”

I could only cry out and bounce more vigorously on his lap until he gripped me with an ecstatic shout, and my own finish tore through me shortly after. As we swayed together in the heady aftermath, I decided to finally tell him.

I would declare my love like a proper gentleman. We would go to dinner and a concert, then return to a candle-lit sitting room where I would kneel before him and bare my soul.

*          *          *

“I say, Joachim is performing at Royal Albert Hall this evening,” I said the following Friday. “Care to join me? We could dine at Romano’s beforehand.” I did my best to sound casual from behind my newspaper.

Holmes was ensconced in a chemical experiment. “Certainly,” he said absently, “although I am expecting a visitor at five.” He finally looked up. “Perhaps we could dine afterwards?”

“That would be lovely.”

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest as my plan fell effortlessly into place. I looked on longingly as he shuffled his retorts and scribbled in his notebook, and for the first time I allowed myself to imagine that he might reciprocate my love. Who else but his trusted friend and colleague could lay claim to his heart?

The afternoon suddenly stretched impossibly long in front of me. I would never be able to contain my excitement if I didn’t find a way to occupy myself. I told Holmes I had some errands to run in the city and left before I accidentally betrayed my intentions in a fit of exuberance.

It occurred to me later that he hadn’t asked me to return in time to meet his client, but I dismissed this from my mind. If it turned out to be a case of interest, he would certainly tell me about it. As of now, I had far more important matters to consider, such as how exactly to word the grandest declaration I had ever made.

Holmes, I’ve never known anyone like you before…Holmes, you know you mean more to me than anyone or anything in the world…Holmes, you won my heart with your first words upon our meeting and now I humbly ask for yours…

Nothing sounded exactly right. Perhaps it would better to simply allow the moment to dictate my sentiments. Maybe he would look down at me, see my face alight with adoration and devotion and deduce everything without my having to say a word.

I arrived home at half past five so I would have enough time to bathe before the evening. I bounded up the seventeen steps to our rooms and had just rounded the second-floor landing when I heard some familiar sounds emanating from Holmes’s bedroom. A delicious thrill passed through me when I paused by his door and realized he was pleasuring himself.

I marveled at the singular energy he seemed to be applying to the task, as the thumping of the bed frame against the wall bespoke an especially rigorous session. I raised my hand to knock and offer my assistance. But the sound of another man’s voice stopped me cold.

The realization that Holmes was in there with someone else sank into my stomach like a two-ton weight. I made haste to my room and closed the door. Unfortunately, I could still hear the muffled cries I knew so well, answered by the groans that I did not. I covered my ears with a pillow and tried desperately to think of other things until the pounding below me ceased. It seemed an eternity until they reached the inevitable conclusion, and the close succession of two final shouts twisted my nerves in a way I’d not experienced since leaving Afghanistan.

I waited until I heard voices in conversational tones again before going downstairs to confront them. Whoever this man was, he couldn’t possibly know Holmes as well as I did. Could he?

When I entered the sitting room, Holmes was clad in his dressing gown, casually flipping through the day’s posts. He smiled when he saw me.

“Afternoon, Watson. Did you have a nice stroll in Regent’s Park?”

He must have known where I was from the splashes of mud on my shoes, but I was in no mood for such a performance just now. I ignored his polite inquiry.

“Holmes, who was that—“ I stopped when his bedroom door opened, and a dark, handsome man dressed in the impeccable clothing of a high-end official stepped into the sitting room.

“Watson, this is my friend the Right Honorable Trelawney Hope and this,” he said nodding towards me, “is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson.”

“How do you do, sir?” said the man as he extended his hand to me.

Astonishment temporarily replaced my anger. “Aren’t you the—“

“The Secretary for European Affairs, yes,” he said with elegant modesty. “And I hope my presence here has not inconvenienced you.”

Had I not heard it myself, I never would have believed this was the same man with whom Holmes had nearly raised the roof just moments before.

“No, not at all, I was just coming home as you were finish—ah, that is to say, I have been out most of the afternoon,” I said, ashamed at my clumsiness.

The statesman grinned and turned to leave.

“I trust I shall see you again before too long, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes, who was already distracted by a letter he was reading, barely acknowledged his departure.

“Hm? Oh yes, always a pleasure, Hope. Mrs. Hudson will see you out.”

“Thank you, I know the way,” said he and gracefully swept out of the room.

I waited until I heard the front door open and close before I spoke again.

“An old acquaintance of yours, Holmes?” I said, my face burning with chagrin.

“Yes, Hope and I do one another small favors from time to time,” Holmes replied breezily. He flicked a glance up at me. “I trust that’s not an issue?”

I forced a smile. “Of course not.”

“Good. I am looking forward to the concert this evening, though I think I shall require a bath first.” He bustled into his bedroom and busied himself at his wardrobe.

He left me standing in the sitting room, my heart and hopes shattered into a million pieces.

Comments

( 8 comments — Leave a comment )
schonste
Aug. 30th, 2010 08:13 pm (UTC)
I think I am going to faint. But also, omg, poor lovesick Watson. I...I really like this Holmes. He is saucy. :D
charlotteyonge
Aug. 30th, 2010 08:21 pm (UTC)
Ooo, thanks! I always wanted to paint him as a total sex god.
autumnatmidnite
Aug. 31st, 2010 12:59 am (UTC)
Holmes, you stupid, sodding idiot!!!!!! *thwaps him upside head*

*cuddles the doctor*
tinzelda
Sep. 1st, 2010 02:10 am (UTC)
Dear lord, talk about a roller coaster. From incredibly steamy to heartbreakingly disappointed. Poor sweet Watson!
charlotteyonge
Sep. 1st, 2010 01:35 pm (UTC)
Yes, I really dragged Watson through the doldrums in this one. :(
cmdc
Sep. 2nd, 2010 07:13 am (UTC)
So sad!
fangirl82
Mar. 24th, 2012 02:36 am (UTC)
I'm sorry but I guess I think this Holmes is a bit of a...stretch. It just seems very far afield from what we see in Canon. Of course, Establishment Sherlockians would say that about ALL slash, including the Holmes/Watson relationship. But that seems supported by Canon in a way that Holmes sleeping with all his distinguished visitors doesn't.

One thing I do like, though, is that you have Holmes playing a "leading" (I can't think of a better word) role in their relations. Many fics have Watson as more experienced, and "leading" Holmes, and while I can certainly believe he'd have had more relationships that Holmes would have had, I just don't see Watson "taking the lead" in ANY aspect of their relationship...Holmes just always seems to dominate him.
jcporter1
Oct. 9th, 2013 04:41 pm (UTC)
Poor Watson. I should have pitched Hope down the stairs.
( 8 comments — Leave a comment )