100 H/W Words on the Canon Words

The first sixty of these drabbles are derived from each of the ACD stories.  They are focused on a presumption of an intimate and often sexual relationship between Holmes and Watson.  If that is not what you care to read, please turn back now.  The tones range from light to inane to dark and angsty.  A couple non-canonical bonus tracks are included at the end.


"Ready Watson?"  Holmes asked as he came bustling in the door.

"Ready?  For what?  What is this nonsense?"  I fussed.  Retrieving the mysterious telegram, I read it aloud as I trailed him into our room. 

"Light always escapes a kitchen cook-fire should one remove less than all rubbish.  Don your apron over clothing.  Stoke it, and do not wait overly-long for combustion.  Trust me, I know Holmes."

Whistling cheerily, Holmes lit the bedroom fire and began to strip.  He paused and considered me.  "Watson, did I never tell you of the code used in the case of the Gloria Scott?"


Over cigars and brandy, Musgrave makes his proposition.

I decline--politely, of course.

I retire to a guest-room alone, but to-night when I touch myself before sleep, I visualise his body lying over mine and as I die, I endeavour to imagine the warmth of his mouth where my lonely palm now lies. 

As my heart rate slows and my fluids gel and crust, I wonder if he will be doing the same.

My corporeal body is contented, but my mind--my soul--is not. I cleanse myself, return to bed and wonder: is there ever to be anything more?


Lestrade and Gregson escorted Hope out our door.  The metal jangled as Holmes replaced the handcuffs in a pocket.

I regarded my recently chosen fellow lodger with acute interest.  "Holmes, you never told me you owned handcuffs."

"Didn't I?  It must have slipped my mind."

"What else have you that might be of interest?"

"Nothing much.  A riding crop, a bull-whip, a smattering of costumes."

"Costumes?  Such as--a policeman?"  The rough fabric of my underclothes chaffed at my member as it swelled.


I licked my lips.  "Shall we see?"

Holmes gestured to his bedroom.  "After you, dear my fellow."


We coiled in the darkened bedroom, my companion in the same state of nervous tension as I.  Suddenly a gentle sound became audible--like a rustle or a hiss.

Holmes's eyes gleamed in excitement.  "You see it, Watson?  You see it!  It's the most potent snake known to man.  He who dares tangle with it risks his very life."  Holmes wrapped his hand below the head and tightened his grip to a frantic choke.

Laughing, I lowered my mouth and sucked him in to the hilt. When he had climaxed, I rolled over.  "I'm willing to take my chances, Holmes."


"I am dreadfully embarrassed to lay this out before you," Trevelyan said.  "Anyone would think that the gross impiety should have been immediately apparent.  An older man manoeuvring to live with a younger man, paying his expenses, keeping him in the finest style--  It reeks of the most abhorrent deviancies of sub-human natures.  As much as I wish my practice to prosper, I maintain high standards in the selection of my associates."

I forced myself to appear unmoved by his diatribe, but my stomach knotted in my throat.

Holmes responded coldly, "As do I; therefore, I cannot accept your case."


"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings."

Spurning the poor violin, we solved our little problem all the same.


"You knew all along," I said, as we rode home in the cab. 

"I suspected, but it was necessary she believe I was utterly certain."

"It was a most unusual resolution.  Why not just reveal the truth to all parties?  Or do you endorse the keeping of secrets--of betrayals and lies--between spouses?  This difference is of great personal interest to me."

"No, I do not."  Holmes kept his gaze straight ahead.  Underneath the carriage blanket he took my hand.  "But I do believe that the benefits reaped from some secrets are worth significant and extraordinary risk, don't you?"


I arrived breathless at his sickbed.  Holmes rose from the sheets to greet to me.  In one motion he dropped his gown on the hotel carpet and swept me into a full embrace.  He moved my hand to where his body was the hottest, and thrust the full extent of his need into my care. 

I choked as his tongue penetrated my throat.  I gasped and found some words.  "You said you were ill," I managed, before he took my mouth again.

"I did not."  His urgency pushed me to the bed.  "I merely said that I needed my doctor."


To me, she will always be 'The Woman.'  I lie naked on my bed admiring her portrait, the tempting pout of her lips, the delicate arches of her cheekbones, the carefully combed and cultured brows.  Her posture is strong, yet feminine; every line of her form whispers of sensuality barely restrained.  I run my eyes over the satin folds of her dress to where it blossoms out into the most perfect bosom my eyes have ever seen. 

She is everything I have always wanted.

Nature dictates that I cannot become her, but in private, at least a man can dream.


Scores of colours swirl within my soul.  He holds me tight and buries his length hard within me.  He breathes the most indescribable sounds as he takes his pleasure.  When I feel his seed let loose, I fracture into a million billion gossamer shards.  I am space and time and perfection.  I am finally free. 

I curl my body around him and caress him as he speaks to me the sweetest words of love. 

The smoke wanes and Watson stands before me, solid and correct. 

I have my case, yet all I wish is to return to my opium-tinted dream.


What Holmes said he relished best was the anticipation of the sting and the effect that each sequentially sterner blow had to warm his skin and condense his total attention to the focus of my presence.

What aroused me most was the sound of the slap and the way each spank left the imprint of my hand upon his backside in ruddy testament.

It should prove a mutually advantageous arrangement.

"Four," said I, as he lay prone across my lap.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"You told Openshaw you had been beaten by three men; now you must amend it to four."


I shook my head.  "So the girl was seen socially with her stepfather?  What has the world come to?"

"She was not; she was seen socially with a man.  No one but the perpetrator knew anything was amiss.  Such are the wonders of disguise."

Holmes opened his wardrobe stuffed with clothing and costumes.  From our bed I watched as he stripped to his night-dress.  Nice rear, slight hips, thin shoulders, narrow waist.... It could work.

"Holmes," I glanced toward the wardrobe.  "The Hargrave ball is next month.  Perhaps--"

"Go to sleep Watson," Holmes said as he climbed in alongside.


"It's a shame the League was only a ruse," I said.  "For the price of a bottle of hair dye, I could have earned some extra income.  Who would be the wiser?"

The water splashed precariously close to the rim as Holmes shuffled in our bath.  The tub was a snug fit; our feet and legs lazed intertwined.

He reached between my thighs and tugged. "Ouch!"  It stung where he plucked my hairs.  He patted the spot in conciliation.  The pat was well worth the sting.

Holmes waved two tan curls in evidence.  "There might be a clue or two."


Mrs. Hudson brought the news.  "He's dying, Dr. Watson.  For three days he has been sinking; I doubt if he will last the day."

Dying.  The single word echoed in my head as I rummaged for my overcoat.

Dying.  It had been a stupid quarrel; I could not remember why we had fought.  Something about an opera I think.

Dying.  What were the words I had left him with?  I called him the foulest of names and told him I had been a fool to care.

Dying.  I began to run down the street.

Dying.  Oh god in heaven, no.


The goose had been consumed with a decent claret and we wallowed in the Christmas season and another successful case. 

I had stripped for the night; Holmes still prattled on. I wrapped a holly garland around my neck and teased him with it, attempting to entice him towards our bed.

"It's certainly something Holmes.  I'm amazed that you sorted the matter out--a jewel of inestimable value concealed inside a silly goose."  I tickled his chin with my boa.

Holmes's eyes sparkled as I wiggled my body coquettishly before him.  "I had the advantage, Watson; I knew of some precedents."


"You'll never guess who's here," the inn-keeper said to his friend and companion.  "Sherlock 'olmes, that London detective.  Arrived with that doctor of his."

"Over the Birlstone business?"

"Yes. Nasty patch that.  They took the blue room."

"You'd think they could afford a second bed."

"They can.  I saw their luggage."  The innkeeper turned down their sheets.  "But they don't put on airs.  You'd never know he was famous.  Asked me for a shaving plaster and a darning set,  'e did.  They're just regular folks, like us.

"Nite, luv."  Settling in to bed, he kissed his lover on the mouth.


"Unthinkable a mother turning away from her child--over a man," I said.

"My parents reside in Carlisle," said Holmes.  "We have not spoken in twenty-two years."

I floundered.  I had no conception.  "Because of--?" I paused; we were in an open carriage. 

"You observe that I am not Negroid.  That should limit the options considerably."  His voice held stolid, his features did not.

I shuffled closer until our thighs met.  "I am sorry."

"Birth is thrust upon us.  Family need not be.  I find the compensations to be adequate."  His cold fingers squeezed mine as our cab rumbled on.


"Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I do."

I startled.  "I never knew you had a brother.  Have you told him about me?"

"Certainly not."

"You are ashamed," I say.

"I am prudent."  Holmes tweaks my rear.  "I have told you he is brilliant, far smarter than I am myself.  It would not do to have him recognise my treasure and purloin it from beneath my very grip."

I wrap him in a playful hug.  "If you think that Holmes, you are quite correct; you are no where near as wise as I have believed."


Holmes spread himself naked on their bed and begged.

Watson stroked his thigh affectionately, but fell to the mattress too.  "My leg is aching dreadfully; I really must lie down again.  Perhaps next time I'll manage." 

Grinning madly, Watson lay supine and splayed his legs in wait for the sweet fullness he craved.  Grumbling something about reciprocity, Holmes knelt in his usual position and soon lost himself in the fervour of their pleasure.  As Watson quivered agonizingly near climax, Holmes readjusted his grip on the pristine thighs--" 

Holmes stopped mid-stroke.  Watson groaned.

"Watson, wasn't your wound in your shoulder?"


Disdaining to make a pallet, I shiver upon the frigid stone slab. Monks would self-flagellate for their sinful yearnings. I am no monk and I have no flail; this method must suffice.

I hear a sad howl across the moor. It might be a beast or merely the wind.

Some say the Hound is but a legend--a metaphor for men's darker vices and their ends-- yet Sir Charles died at its maw. Some say that is proof.

It is not. Beasts of the mind can be as pernicious as beasts of the wild.

Despite myself, I ache for Watson.


"It seems to me I have done you full justice in the matter."  Seeing such egotism repelled me intensely.  "Sometimes I don't know why I bother."

Holmes slipped behind me and slid one lean hand down my trousers.  He wrapped me in his fingers and with his other arm, drew me back against his chest.  I was on fire in an instant; within two I was under his spell.  Nothing mattered but the beating of his heart against my shoulder and the thrill of his fingers over my shaft.

As I dissolved into his embrace, I remembered why I did.


Holmes replaced the syringe.  "Don't judge Old Turner so harshly.  There, but for the grace of god goes Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes's brow furrowed and he pressed a hand to his eyes.  I wondered what visions haunted him so that he should choose the annihilation of narcosis over the world of thought.

Holmes continued.  "Turner acted not for himself, but to destroy an evil which threatened all he held dear. I cannot condemn a man for that; in the same position I would do the same.  Would you not Watson?

I stared at the loathsome Morocco case.  "If I could."


"Surely the worst of the Seven Deadlies," said Holmes, as he overlooked his city from our window.

"Pride?" I said.

"Touché, Watson. A lethal parry--but it was greed of which I spoke. It induced a man to leave the comfort of secure employ and follow an enigmatic stranger on some inchoate scheme."

My medical bag still sat beneath my writing desk, laden heavy with the dust of disuse. I rose and kicked it farther aside. I encircled his waist with my arms and lay my head upon his gown. My hand slipped lower.

"There is another possibility," I whispered.


Over our eight years, I had learned much of my friend Sherlock Holmes, yet in the mere three weeks of our inchoate intimacy, I had seen more of his secret self than any man--or woman--ever had. 

Still this revelation in poetry was a surprise.  "'Much to hope for from the flowers?'  You will forgive me if I say I hardly think of you as a contemplator of roses." 

His hand slipped shockingly low on my waist as he ushered me through the hall.

"Would it clarify matters if I were to say, I was thinking more of pansies?"


Holmes lay naked over me, his face made placid in the glow of shared passion spent.  His fingers explored my folds, traced my features as if there were still some part of me he did not know and must.  It tickled when he brushed my whiskers.

"I wonder if Mycroft will receive a parcel."

"Hm?" Unlike him, I could not follow thoughts.

"When our wronged murderer found his spouse had been unfaithful, he sent the lovers' ears to her sibling."'

Irritated, I rose to return home.  "That was entirely different and I don't think much of your sense of humour."


I roused my wife.  "Mary, I'm off."

She yawned.  "So early?  A patient?"


At the half-truth she jolted upright and searched my face. "You are going to see--him." 

Sometimes I fear her for a witch.

I flushed.  "About a patient.  A client.  A client and a patient."  My voice rose in my own defence.

"You promised."

"And I've kept my vows.  This man needs help."

She dropped to her pillow.  "Do as you like.  I will not keep you against your will."

"Mary, it's just a patient.


"Mary, I love you.


I shut the bedroom door.


I closed the Bible and replaced it on the shelf.  "Should you ever hear me call out 'David!' in my sleep, you may rest assured that I am thinking of something far less nefarious, although involving equally intense biblical 'knowledge'."  I ran my thumb appreciatively over the statuette that graced our mantle, first over its gently rippled abdomen, then down its groin. 

"Making comparisons, Watson?"  The testiness in Holmes's voice hung in the air.

I rushed to hug him in reassurance. "My dear man, I would never do that; it would be entirely unfair.  Michelangelo did the best he could."


"But hardly surprising," continued Holmes. "The Spanish are a passionate and dangerous people, ever in tenuous equilibrium." From his chemical shelf he took a jar of small, green objects and held it to the light. "Consider Lytta vesicatoria, the Spanish Fly. In tiny doses, the wings yield violent pleasure. Pushed further, violent death. A parlous experiment, but many say worth the risk." He extracted a beetle. "Care to sample?"

"Certainly not!" My indignation rose. "I don't require enhancements."

Holmes erupted, "You know my methods. Facts, Watson, not speculation!"

I removed my vest and began on my braces. "My pleasure."


For all the stimulation Holmes extracted from a case, his greatest pleasure came afterwards, preening in his success.  "Staining hair is not difficult.  It requires only a modicum of knowledge of fibres and chemistry.  Hair from the human head is fine and only a penetrating liquid dye will take.  Horsehair is coarse and retains particles; any number of substances would serve--soot, boot black, tar.  Now pubic hair falls somewhere in the middle--"

I writhed and clutched his head, pushing it back down to my demanding groin  "For God's sake man, stop with the bloody lecture and just SUCK!"


"G'd evening guv'ner." The loafer followed me into the gentleman's, and approached me bold as brass.

"Excuse me." I pushed past him and prepared to do my business.

"Blimey! A fine bloke like you don't need no excuse." He winked and gestured most impertinently toward my person.

"Really!" I exclaimed and began to close my trousers.

"Really," said he, pushing me to the wall. In an instant he was down upon his knees with my member inside his mouth. The costume might be unfamiliar, but that sweet feel was not.

"Holmes!" I choked. "For heaven's sake man, lock the door!"


In the Englischer Hof, Holmes sits in a chair and smokes.  He watches Watson sleep in the sole bed they have been provided, his mouth twitching sensuously with every breath.

There was a time that sharing a room, a bed, would have been most difficult to endure.  Nowadays doing so is his most singular joy.

Nonetheless it is difficult to do so in chaste and propitious silence while their wakeful neighbour paces the adjacent floor.  Therefore Holmes sits and wills his impetuous body to deflate, while Watson's mouth twitches in his dreams. 

Holmes assumes there will be many other nights.


It was pitch black in the empty house.  Holmes's lean fingers closed around my wrist.  He put a hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.  Overcome with his nearness, I kissed his mouth.

He brushed me aside.  "Please, Watson, this is serious business!"

"So is this." I nuzzled his neck, my desire aching all at once.

"My very life is at stake," said Holmes.

"So is mine," said I earnestly.  "Three years is a very long time."  I moved my hand.

"Watson!" he hissed, "Don't touch me there!"

I persisted in my efforts.

"Watson!" Holmes ejaculated.


As Hopkins read the description, Holmes dashed off a second note and passed it to me.

"Wanted: a part-time physician of dubious scruples but of outstanding refinement and taste in companions. Must be lithe, tenderhearted, tolerant, and above all, loyal.  There are indications he is an above-average kisser and testimony has been offered that his skills at love are unparalleled.  Reward offered, for he has stolen my heart."

"Very funny," said I as I crumpled the note into my waistcoat pocket. I turned to the wall to hide my school-boy grin, but I suspect Holmes saw it all the same.


"How did you recognise the imprint of the jumping shoes?"  I asked as we undressed for bed.

"I was heavily involved in university athletics."  Holmes checked his physique in the mirror.


"Almost any field.  I was not particular if it met my needs."

"Really?  The way you eschew exercise for it's own sake, I had no idea."  I slid my hands along his chest.

"Oh, I never partook in the sport.  It was the athletes I was involved with.  If you would be so kind as to place your left leg over my right arm, I will demonstrate why."


"Extraordinary that you could tell so much from hands.  What can you deduce from mine?"

"Like that, nothing.  Come, place it here."  He settles it against his groin.

"Don't be preposterous!  You can't tell anything like that."

"Don't be so cock-sure.  Move your hand faster.  Faster.  Faster!"  His eyes roll back and his breathing thickens. 

I pull away. He groans at contact lost.  When I reach down his trousers and touch skin, he gasps and falls against my shoulder.  Breathing unsteadily, I re-double my strokes.

"You are wrong," he breathes against my face.  "Like this I know everything about you."


It was an achievable if difficult position for a lithe man.  Squatting on the mattress with his backside to Watson's face, Holmes straddled the swollen groin, raising and lowering himself by the strength of his thighs alone.  Unable to control the tempo, Watson lay near the edge in a musky fervour.  He thrummed his own nipples and shivered his thighs, held captive by the steel of Holmes's restraint.

Quickening his exertions, Holmes threw his head back and died. 

Covered in perspiration, they gasped for breath.  "There can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast."


"A clever trick. You've not used that since--"  My voice lagged.  However much agony his appreciation for the woman had caused me, it had caused him even more.

Holmes responded easily.  "Criminal n'er-do-well or inspired lover, the realization is the same.  Where there is smoke, there is fire, and fire is a wild and unpredictable thing.  It is not to be taken lightly. One's fundamental welfare depends upon it."

Inhaling from the cherrywood, he blew out a perfect ring. It drifted in my direction, and dissipated in my cough.

"Good night, Watson." He retreated to the safety of his room.


With the tedium, I grew peevish. "Yet again we find ourselves in the dark, lying in wait with no entertainment. Holmes, is this absolutely necessary?"



"We could have our culprit almost anywhere. I prefer it here."

"In god's name, why?" I erupted.

I felt his hand upon my thigh. "Do you not recall our escapade in the bedroom during the matter of the Speckled Band?"

I did. I flushed.

His hand moved higher.

"Holmes-- Mycroft? Lestrade?" I struggled for sanity.

Fingers found my waistband. "I believe you will find them otherwise occupied."

I gazed toward the settee. "Oh!"


The lodging house was exceptionally private and it would be a modest hike to the road. I was anxious to be underway, thus was surprised and a little irked when Holmes dropped to his knees. He took his lens and examined every accessible inch, foundation to window casements.

"You are not satisfied with her explanation?" I asked.

"Oh, quite," said Holmes, as he dusted off his trousers.

"Then what the blazes are you doing?"

"Surveying its soundness. It strikes me that this place would make for most pleasant retirement lodgings when our golden years are upon us. Don't you agree?"


"What do you think of vampires Watson?  Walking corpses who can only be held in their graves by wooden stakes?"

"The vampire was not necessarily a dead man; I have read of the old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth."

I rose and made a place for my lips along his neck.    I sucked hard enough to draw blood beneath the skin.  In the name of propriety he must wear high collars for the remainder of this week. 

I murmured into his ear,  "And it seems to work the other way 'round as well." 


I recognised the signs of relapse the moment he returned.  Holmes paced restively, then looking towards the bedroom, muttered something about a nap.

"You needn't hide," I said wearily.  "I have done all I can.  If you choose to destroy yourself, I cannot stop you, but as it breaks my heart to witness, I will withdraw."

Holmes appeared behind me, his arms wrapped around my chest. He pressed the phial into my fist and wrapped his trembling fingers around mine. 

My neck grew damp where he rested his face. "You are wrong, Watson; you are the only man who can."


"Holmes, I beg you, I'm ready now!"

My groin is so heavy laden I swear I can taste my seed boiling over within.  Mercifully, Holmes reaches for the oil.  I spread my legs and stroke myself, feeling the first pearly drops grace my thumb. 

When he anoints me with the oil, the tension rises to unbearable.  "Holmes, inside me...now."

To my dismay, Holmes leans back and raises his toes.  With the largest one he rims and violates me until I choke and spew.

As I die the little death I hear him chuckle, "Come Watson, the game is a foot."


The horror engulfs you all at once, more terrifying and grotesque than any concrete idea your unaided mortal mind could form. You can give it neither name nor face nor form nor voice, but you are utterly alone with it.

You are hopelessly, fundamentally and inexorably alone.

It curls your gut and strangles your lungs until your greatest fear is no longer death, but the unremitting perseverance of this existence

Then you are lying in the sunshine, his face before you, your name upon his lips and his eyes filled with deepest dread.

"Watson!" You embrace him in unabashed relief.


My spirits sank as I opened our door and saw him still at work. Puerile or not, I had wished he would remember.

His cases always took precedence. 

"Watson!  Come, there's not a moment to lose!  The Mystery of the Dancing Men grows immediately urgent."
We dashed down the street; with great surprise, I realised we had stopped at the alleyway entrance to the Diogenes.

Holmes knocked.  We were escorted to a private salon.  Six scantily-clad performers surrounded me, and soon I was awash in delicious, young dancing men.

Holmes favoured me with a rare grin.  "Happy Birthday, old chap."


I consider myself a most patient man, and am quite accustomed to Holmes bringing his unsavoury habits into our bed, however tonight he was utterly insufferable.  After ridiculing the intellectual failings of Mr. Barker, our erstwhile client--Amberley--and all of Scotland Yard, Holmes turned his foul disposition back towards my inadequacies as his on-site agent.

I shifted far to my side, folded my arms across my chest and stared at the ceiling.

"Watson, are you listening?" Holmes's nudged me, his voice testy.

"No Holmes, I was considering doing some painting.  It should brighten the atmosphere around the rooms considerably."


Pressed together behind the curtain, I felt his hand steal into mine. 

I slid my hand down his body; in the dark I could not be sure where it went.  I reached under his coat, brushed his hips, moved forward to his thighs.  I felt something long and hard.  I followed its impressive length to where it flared into a wide tip.

Holmes's body was poised tight with excitement.  Breathing hard, he kept his eyes trained on the gap in the drapes.

"Holmes," I whispered, "is that a crowbar in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"


At the peculiar sound, I loo
4ked up from my writing. Holmes's head was tossed back in his chair. Between his legs, pale fingers played over rosy meat where it stood plump and straining the limits of its casing. He worked the foreskin up and down. The tip poked out and back, out and back, coquettishly inviting me to partake. I was suddenly too aroused to speak.

Holmes lifted his lids. "You were saying, the idee fixee is only found in madman?"

I threw myself upon him. Through the virtue of my mouth upon his organ, the peculiar sounds began again.


"A thoroughly improbable couple from the outset.  I wonder how they even came to wed," I said.

"People wed out of a menagerie of motivations, not the foremost of which is devotion.  I should hardly have to explain this to you."

I twisted my wedding band uneasily and changed the subject.

"It's a distasteful business: the man, the money, the girl, the murder.  It makes one sceptical of the entire notion of love."

Holmes pasted the portrait of the unhappy murderess into his scrapbook, moved up behind me and kissed my head.  "Or more impressed than ever by its power."


Holmes scoffed as he peered over Watson's shoulder.  "'...prostate and insensible upon our bearskin hearth-rug.'  Honestly, Watson, sometimes I despair of you.  Surely the difference a letter R can make is well within the bounds of knowledge of an educated medical man.  I shudder to think what Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D would have to say about being described so."

Watson looked up with tolerance.  "Certainly I do, Holmes, and I wrote precisely what I meant.  I was not, however, referring to Dr. Huxtable."

With only a few minutes of attention, Holmes's prostate had rendered him insensible upon the bearskin hearth-rug.


I stomped my stick for emphasis.  "We're not taking that dog, Holmes, and that's my final word.  I've never cared for dogs--filthy beasts."

"You used to keep a bull-pup," he said.

I snorted. "You saw that in my stories?  I also wrote that I married.  Surely you don't believe everything you read?"  I took his hand beneath his Ulster.

The Shoscombe spaniel yelped behind us as we made our way down the lane.  Holmes played with my fingers under the folds.  "Yes, Sir Robert is correct.  Some facts are best kept from the public notice--for the time being."


I lay abed, my injured leg supported upon pillows. It was a warm day; the combination of June weather and my forced convalescence had made me restive with untapped energy. An attempt to read my medical journals had been summarily scuttled by Holmes's strident voice from the sitting room discoursing upon the details of his victory.

"Such an elaborate plan to lure one man from his room," I mused.

"I suppose you could do better?"

I limped to the doorway and flashed open my dressing-gown, revealing the proud state of my undress.

Holmes abandoned the sitting room in record time.


The express steamed on toward London. In a passageway, Leonora stopped at a compartment window. "Look, Emily, that's the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes."

"Really? I didn't know he had a son."

"That's not his son; that's his companion, Dr. Watson."

"Are you quite certain? Look at the way they're seated."

"Quite sure. I've seen several sketches in The Strand."

"I'm going to ask." Emily raised a hand to knock.

"Don't! I think they're asleep."

Behind them, the conductor cleared his throat. "Might I help you ladies?"

They turned with guilty smiles. "No thank you. We were just stretching our legs."


Steam off the baths wraps around us.  He smokes his pipe, seemingly unmoved.  He sits so near I could reach under his towel and touch him as I would have him touch me.  As he touched me last night.

I smell the musk of male arousal; it makes me harder still.  Adjusting my newspaper discreetly, I palm myself because I must.

As my body plumps to stretch my fingers, I realise that the odour is from me.

Holmes watches, that sly smile behind his eyes.  "Watson, shall we adjourn to the steam room?"

Seconds later, I am in his mouth.


I piled up the Daily Gazettes he had cast aside. In one edition, two advertisements were marked, not merely the crucial one. "J.W.: Every day my heart longs to beat near yours. I thank God, the Fates, the Furies or whatever powers may be, that it has at least been allowed to rest sweetly there at night. --Sigerson"

I glared at him in fond irritation. "Holmes, you are an outright fraud!"

Holmes raised his languorous lids. "Perhaps, Watson. Nevertheless, I spoke the truth; that smarmy advert is pure bleat." He kissed me and retired ahead of me to our bed.


I returned to my darkened rooms to find Watson in his erstwhile favourite chair. It was late. He should be home; he was not. I lit the gas and waited.

"They both died--mother and child."

I had deduced that from nine separate factors, but held my peace. Now was not the time for brilliance.

"I should have been able to prevent it." Watson turned his bright eyes upon me. "When clients trust in you, do you ever fear not being equal-- not being good enough?"

I took my old seat across from him. "Never while you are with me."


Holmes has been ominously quiet since hearing of Douglas Maberley's death.  He has smoked pipe after toxic pipe.  I lay my hand upon his shoulder.  He doesn't speak or turn.

He still thinks I do not know.

But once I saw Maberley's gentle letters among yellowed papers long since burnt.  I have met Langdale Pike as well.  The vile scandal-maggot would bloat upon the sacred affections of man for man, and my friend will never jeopardise the esteemed name he has bled to earn. 

It is not for me to question Sherlock Holmes.  I retire and leave him quite alone.


He sat just where I had left him, awash in a fog of smoke.

I stepped inside. "Holmes, I am sorry. I shouldn't have left, but this is all so new and there's so much to consider. I do love you; I always have, but this situation is so damned difficult."

I neared his chair. I touched a shoulder. The wax figure toppled to the floor. Holmes laughed. I whirled in outrage.

"Watson, situations are as difficult as we make them. Accept what you know is real; the rest is only distracters."

He kissed me, and my turmoil melted away.


After twenty years of ageing together, I knew my companion's moods.  This was the calm before the storm--his post-success high before crashing into the blackest of moods.

Still, I could not predict exactly when that crash would come.

He held the findings of Presbury's box: the phial, the instructions--and a syringe. 

"Holmes, you can't believe in that clap-trap.  No sera can bolster virility."

Holmes's eyes danced.  He set the lot down.  "Perhaps not, but if you would kindly lower your trousers, bend over that desk and spread your legs, I will demonstrate how this case has enhanced mine."


The Lethal Sting--

It is lonely without my fidus Achates. It has been six years since I saw him last. I am become my own chronicler. That is not the cruellest hardship.  Watson fell upon a chance for marriage, to sire his long-desired heir. I could not give him his legacy; I could not bear to keep him from it. I bade him go. He was loath to leave. I said I wanted him to. Alone now, I have time to record these tales.

No Good!

Draft Two

The Adventure of the Lion's Mane--

It is a most singular thing....


Prison has not treated him well, nor the subsequent disgrace.

"You have been well, Watson?"

"Yes.  I tried to see you, but--"

He dismisses the past with a wave.

I can stand it no more.  I grasp his hand.  It feels old and arthritic--as does mine.

"I am so sorry." It is the first time I have touched him in eight years.  My eyes water.  Martha watches.  It is not entirely appropriate.

It is nowhere near enough.

Holmes smiles sadly.  "With this war, old sensibilities must fall aside, but, my old friend, I fear not rapidly enough for us."


Despite Freud's easy amiability, Holmes remained aloof--as if none of this had the slightest relationship to his plight.

Freud leaned back in his chair and waxed pedantic.  "It is my contention that the psyche is composed of three opposing drives. The majority of self-destructive behaviors--such as narcotic abuse--are the result of the cognitive distress resultant when conflicts between the three cannot be resolved. I refer to these forces as the 'id', the 'ego' and the 'superego'.  In the case of Herr Holmes, the dominant psychic force would be--"

"Don't tell me," I drawled.  "Let me deduce."


"Mary, hurry," I begged, unable to sequester the naked need from my voice.

Mary worked her wedding gown.  "I am trying."  She was nowhere near done.

My body ached.  The anticipation was beyond endurance.  I touched myself from necessity, not desire. "I can't wait.  Please-- your drawers."

She kicked the lacy things off with a giggle.

Frenzied, I snatched them and pulled them on.  She tossed her stockings; I donned them as eagerly.

She retired with her embroidery as I paraded, at joyous ease.  "I'll see you in the morning, John.  And try not to stain my things; they're silk."


"So concludes the singular Adventure of the Crop Circles." Holmes stretched out his legs. In the flickering firelight his skin appeared to take an eerie, yellow cast. Glossy dark hair receded behind the chair-back wing as he reclined his lean form and steepled his fingers in front of his angular face.

"Well done, old chap!" I ejaculated.

"It was a simple exercise when one has certain speciality knowledge," said Holmes. "Now, if you would pass my instrument, I must meditate upon our next case."

As Holmes leaned forward to receive the violin, one pointed ear glimmered in the fireplace glow.


I watch his fingers play across the strings.  They mesmerise me with their grace.  They flit and flutter; they tease and then hold strong, the melancholy reverberating in my ears.  With a gasp they skip and play on again, entrancing my eyes with their insouciance.

What would it be like, I wonder, to have those fingers play me?

I rise with a start.  What is wrong with me?  I am to be married next week.  The strain?

I make excuses and retire post-haste.  The sad notes linger and the fingers continue their dance long into the dark of my night.


Words have their limitations; I do not trust in them.  Music has none; my soul bleeds though my instrument instead.  It cries all the things I cannot--will not--say.  All the thoughts and passions that would rasp obscene on human lips are made pure and splendrous by my bow.

Watson rises.  "If you are intent upon ignoring me, I shall retire to my room."

I know his thoughts; the eyes tell all.  For him there is yet a choice and I would not lure him into my shameful purgatory for all the world.

He leaves.  My violin cries on.



I climb the steps to that familiar wail. To-night they seem more than seventeen.  He opens the door in that ridiculous dressing-gown.  His eyes fly wide.

For once I have astounded him.

I say my heart.  "Will you have me back?" 

Somehow I am holding him.  His body shudders, yet he speaks no words. 

His face is swollen; he pulls away. I check my collar; it is damp.


He composes himself and leads me in.  He is ever Sherlock Holmes.  "Watson, if you are waiting for an answer, your powers of observation are far below what I have feared."