November 18th, 2009

Train of Thought

I sat back in my seat and watched the scenery fly past my window as the train sped away from the station. I had just spent a week in Bristol ministering to the fragile health of an old army friend whose rheumatism had developed severe complications. Roberts was in much better condition when I left him than when I found him, and that morning I was able to confidently assure his wife that I expected him to make a full recovery.

Before I left, Holmes had received a mysterious letter, the full contents of which he did not wish to disclose. All he told me was that he had been commissioned to act as an intermediary on behalf of someone whose personal and financial well-being hung in precarious balance. He said he thought it best to first proceed alone, but that he expected he would be needing my assistance as the case progressed. Therefore, the summons from Roberts was rather well-timed.

But damned if my last conversation with Holmes wasn’t so stimulating that I nearly abandoned my journey altogether.

“Watson, these activities you so artfully described to bring me to an aroused state—are they something in which you would honestly like to engage?” he had asked me after breakfast.

“I would spend my last penny to try them just once,” I replied wistfully.

When I realized how that sounded, I made haste to apologize, but a broad smile had already spread across his face and he responded with a husky laugh.

“Well, perhaps when you return from Bristol and I bring this case to a close we can set aside some time to further explore these scintillating ideas of yours,” he said, rising from the table and patting me on the arm.

That he was open to any of it was as surprising as it was arousing, and I spent the majority of my train ride to the country allowing my mind to formulate various elaborations on the scenarios I had presented to him. My nether regions had duly thickened at the images of him on his knees, servicing me with his hands tied behind his back, and the way his skin might feel underneath mine were I really to squeeze myself between his thighs. But the thought of taking him, oh God—I pressed my hand into my groin underneath my newspaper in an effort to both tame and stimulate my arousal.

I had a separate fantasy for this, one that had me coming home late one night to find Holmes bent over his desk or his chemistry, hard at work. It is not easy to surprise him, for his animal-like instincts for movement are so finely honed that he can detect a spider on the wall in the next room. But somehow, I would catch him unawares by approaching him silently from behind, reaching around his waist and pulling him roughly to me. I wanted him to be irritated, to protest that I was interrupting his work and to try to wriggle free of my grip. Once I unfastened his trousers and insinuated my hand between his legs, however, he would abandon his project and begin to urge me on.

“I want to see you come again,” I would whisper in his ear, “with me inside of you.”

He would only nod and groan in response as I massaged his cock until it was as hard and erect as it could be, then I would work my way into his hole with moistened fingers. I imagined his expression of acute pleasure clenching into needful tension as I spread him apart determinedly, and then extricated my own flesh which quivered with hunger for his.

I would first slide in and out slowly, then thrust into him so hard as to push him forward onto his desk. His hands would cast about frantically for purchase, scattering papers, spilling ink, pushing paperweights to the floor as I pounded away, heeding his calls to do so harder and faster, begging me to fill him to the hilt and bring my own climax.

“You first,” I would say, tugging wildly at his flesh until he called my name and spent himself in loud cries. I would follow immediately, the clenching sensation around my buried cock igniting my release and launching me into an ecstatic frenzy.

I cannot precisely account for all the reasons I wanted to take him in this particular manner, but I surmise that my own knowledge of his physical and mental strength is what invoked my wish to challenge him sexually. Of course, the fantasy only worked if I felt that he would enjoy the experience as much as I, and in all the myriad variations I managed to come up with he most certainly did.

Needless to say, I spent a restless week in the country when I was not tending my friend’s ailments. I verily ached with anticipation when at last my train pulled into Waterloo station upon my return. I had every hope that I would find Holmes both at home and done with his case.

Such was not to be. As soon as I alit the train, a page boy approached me with a telegram.

“Dr. Watson?” he said.

“I’m Dr. Watson,” I replied. He handed me a telegram and disappeared into the crowd.

I tore it open.

Do not come to Baker Street. Go to the Cadogen Hotel and check in as Mr. Stephen Hallingsworth. I will contact you with further instructions.