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I go through all this before you wake up / So I can feel happier to be safe up here with you… "Hyperballad"- Bjork
And I just hope and pray that the day of our love is at hand / You and I, me and you, we will be one from two, understand? / And the world is so wrong that I hope that we'll be strong enough / Cause we're all on our own and the only thing known is our love… - "Homosapien"- Pete Shelley (OG pride!)
1.
I am at my morning vigil with John. Every day that he has stayed at Baskerville Hall I have awakened before dawn to make the hike around the tor into the dense patch of woods which lines the mansion's rear lawn, and thence up into an obliging pine tree. From my perch, level with the first story and some forty feet from John's bedroom window, I sit and make sure that he looks well upon waking and gets off to breakfast before I go about my business for the day. I would like to see him into bed at night, but this is much riskier for a variety of reasons, and I am therefore not able to do it regularly as I should prefer.
It is dawn, and I decide to risk smoking a few puffs from a cigarette. After singeing one of my eyebrows while lighting up beneath my coat, I raise my field glasses and am at John's bedside.
He is sleeping on his stomach, his arms folded beneath the pillow, the lower half of his bad leg uncovered and his foot hanging over the side of the mattress. His face is turned away from me, but I would recognize the tousle in his hair from amongst a thousand men with the same coloring, the way it matts into damp curls like a slumbering boy's. It looks like he got some sun on his neck during his walk with Stapleton yesterday. I like to see John with a bit of sun, reminds me of the day we met…
…he's managed to cover an entire double bed, and then wonders why I can't sleep beside him - his knee would be right in my kidneys and his elbow in my neck, and I'd be shivering on a sliver of the mattress with six inches of the sheet…
John rolls over suddenly and flings back the counterpane, kicks it off of his legs, has a good stretch. I can tell from the spry manner in which he moves that he has actually been awake for awhile. Failed to observe, allowing myself to become distracted…He's trying to go back to sleep…still tired…didn't sleep well last night…I couldn't get here to see him to bed…maybe the mattress is too soft - or is it too hard? Of which does he complain?… Perhaps he was up late with Baskerville. Better than thinking he tossed and turned all night…
He laces his fingers together, tucks them behind his head, crossing the ankle of his bad leg over that of his good, all in his characteristic manner. What are you thinking about, John?…I'll never understand how he can sleep in nothing but his drawers when he feels it's warm enough. Says he picked up the habit in the military. I should feel horribly exposed and uncomfortable, regardless of how many blankets I was burrowed beneath…
John's chest hair…my eyes return to it time and again…I can recall what every inch feels like and I let myself remember, even though I also feel ashamed to look at John this way…I reach down and slip my hand up my trouser cuff, run my fingers momentarily along the hair on the front of my shin but it only frustrates me that it's not what…what I want…
I want…I want…the thought makes me uneasy but I am compelled to examine it again and again, like picking on a torn cuticle…this cursed, worrisome distraction, this wanting, is precisely why I have avoided any close personal attachments. And yet here I am, perched in a pine tree at dawn for the opportunity to lay eyes upon this man because I am plagued with the unfamiliar desire to lay my hands upon him…because touching him, caressing him, feeling him on top of me, calms and centers me in a way that I do not understand but for which I often yearn, and the yearning feels like an unforgiveable weakness. I am absolved by John's touch; I am only real when seen by John's eyes…he has infinitely kind blue eyes, has my John, clear and bright; there is no cruelty in them. There is steel in the man, but no cruelty, one of the things about him which I - I admire the most…
…he reaches down to scratch himself and leaves his hand on his abdomen…Oh then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do…the soft hair of his belly against my lips is luxurious, hypnotizing. I can almost feel it now…to curl up like a cat with my head in John's lap, my lips against his stomach - that's a rather appealing thought…yes, I should quite like to do that…although at a time when I feel prepared to take part in the Ritual, as I'm afraid John will take a certain interpretation of my actions…
It would all be so much more convenient if he would simply tell me when he is aroused and how he would like to be pleasured, but he finds this suggestion inexplicably offensive - says it would make him feel as if he were being serviced in a brothel, although I don't comprehend the difference my participation makes to the indulgence of his urges. I accepted the necessity of providing John with this assistance when he accepted my proposal of entering into a romantic partnership, and a man doesn't balk or claim inconvenience when called upon to perform his duty. After all, it's not as if I m-
hallo, what have we here? Hand going down the front of his drawers. Maybe an itch - no. Stroking himself. Well, well, well, apparently my John has some urges to indulge this morning. Naughty boy - what would mum and the vicar say?
I must say this is an unexpected and rather fascinating turn of events…Doesn't seem to be in any hurry about it……
…well, take it out of your drawers, man, so that I can see what you're doing, I'm losing potential data…
…oh come on, John…
There now, at last…
…interesting little twist of the wrist he does at the end, I shall employ that in the future; otherwise doesn't seem to be doing anything I haven't tried before…
His chest, his thighs, the way that he's laying there with eyes closed, so lazily, my fingertips yearn to slip through the hair, have my way with him unobserved while he is thus distracted; there is a pleasant idea…of course, I would inevitably end up pressed into service of some sort, but I suppose we all must do our bit for Queen and country, mustn't we?
What are you seeing on the backs of your trembling eyelids, John? Memories, I'd fancy. Which? When did John seem to particularly enjoy himself? The train to Sheffield, perhaps, or some other memory, surely…
Maybe another man entirely, someone before me…hmmm…
Maybe Baskerville…That wagtail, I've seen him getting into the bath and he's built like bloody Laocoon. Well, I may be built more like the serpent, Baskerville, but we all know who won that particular battle…
But I don't know what John's other lovers looked like, do I? Never thought to ask. Is that the sort of thing one is allowed to ask? Now I feel like I should know, perhaps he has photographs back in the flat - and what would that mean?
And what if they do look like bloody Baskerville?…
No, this will never do - where's a pine cone?…not the whole thing, just a piece heavy enough to throw…
Missed the damned window, find another…
There, got one of the shutters - John startles and throws the sheet over himself like a guilty lad. Caught you, naughty boy…How shall I let him know I was the culprit? Must wait until the perfect moment presents itself…
Good Lord, John, back at it?…certainly seems more determined now.
…and he's laying right there in Baskerville's bed, even.
Where's another pine cone…
Got the window pane that time…Oh dear, he appears to be getting up. I fear I will have to cut my vigil short this morning…
2.
…I haven't had a decent night's sleep since coming to stay at this dilapidated old pile, and it's starting to wear on my nerves. This damned mattress is so soft it's like trying to sleep on a soggy pudding, and almost as bad is this blasted canopy…Just look at the awful thing. Sherlock would love it, of course. He'd have the sides down and tied shut and I bet there's a hundred years worth of dust in them…Still, I should feel better if he were here. This place is all gloom and apprehension, almost enough to put one in a funk…Good Lord, man, you're getting soft - that's what comes from letting him make so many of the decisions. You should have more spine, like mum did…Christ, John, stop whinging and go back to sleep…
Oh this is ridiculous, bloody stand-on won't go away. I don't want to have to get up and go to the privy, I just want to go back to bloody sleep; by the time I got up, made it down the corridor, stood there and waited to piss, and made it back to bed, all my hopes of falling back to sleep would be lost…probably a thunder pot in the washstand somewhere - although one never knows in this place - but do I even have to go that badly? All I want is to go back to sleep…
…bloody sheets wrapped around my legs - there, that's better. At least I don't have to hear Sherlock tell me I'm fanning the blankets and freezing him to death…although then I should have to warm him back up, shouldn't I? Now there's a happy thought: rolling over on top of him…this early in the morning he would be gracile and boyish and languid in my arms, half asleep, stubble on his lip and chin, thick lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and this train of thought is doing nothing whatsoever to assuage my erection…
…reminds me of the time Sherlock experimented with morphine to relieve his skin sensitivities; he'd stripped off to the skin, pulled me down on top of him, falling back almost as if drunk and taking me with him…I was still in my undershirt and had only just begun to unbutton my trousers, and there was something terribly, erotically vulnerable about his contrasting nakedness and his extreme torpor…rather had my way with him - maybe I should feel a bit guilty, but why else had he done the experiment…I'm momentarily overcome by a brief, intense snatch of memory - my hands slipping between the small of Sherlock's back and the mattress, fingertips slipping into the groove between his erector spinae muscles, his waist so delectably slender that my thumbs could curve halfway around his sides, pulling back along the length of his cock until only his fiery, fatly swollen head remained in my mouth and looking up to admire the muscular tension that had built up in his naked and dreamily writhing torso, Christ - the delineation of his serratus anterior and rectus abdominus muscles, never got to appreciate those little details with bulkier, hairier men, don't know what I was ever thinking, and don't get a mouthful of hair when I'm at his torso, either, and Sherlock's really rather lucky that I can't touch him as I should like, I feel as though I would render him positively catatonic if he were here right now -
Oh, to the devil with it - if I popped one off I should probably be able to get back to sleep for an hour or two…Is there anything laying around…only my handkerchief. Well, it's old anyway, and has never yet shirked from unpleasant duties. Alas, poor kerchief; I knew him, Yorick…
Alright then…It's dawn, and if I'm going to stroke myself off at this time of day only one memory will do - yes, didn't even have to try to summon it up, there it is - or rather there Sherlock is, hovering over me, his pallid skin like porcelain in the watery dawn sunlight, panting softly, quietly through parted lips, eyes gazing almost solemnly down into mine with pupils blown, scanning me for reaction, his body trembling, suffused with an energy like the wary willingness of a young colt on the verge of bolting from a friendly hand, but I didn't let him bolt, pressing the backs of my calves against his wiry hamstrings, bearing down against the pain as I took him into me for the first time, Sherlock whispering anxiously after every advance _Have I hurt you? I've hurt you _until I silenced him with a kiss and we both grunted when he finally slid in to the hilt, a deep pleasure-pain that I hadn't felt in many years, the intensity of the pleasure heightened because it was Sherlock's cock filling me, claiming me at long last, and good Lord this shan't take me long at all, and - what the bloody hell was that?!
Sounded like something hit the window; a bird, sounded like…Even the bloody birds are stark raving around here…Don't hear anything else…Now there's a detail for Sherlock's next letter. Speaking of - where was I? Ah yes, of course, the first time Sherlock plundered me. That's a good one, but I'd rather like to speed things up and get to sleep, so something a bit dirtier and less sentimental…
The train to Sheffield, dear God, yes, the train to Sheffield…can't believe we haven't worn this one out already…Sherlock looking up from between my knees with his lips wrapped around my cock and I'd lost track of precisely what his fingers were even doing, only that it was making me see stars (thank God for violinists - not only for the dexterity of their fingers, but for their muscular stamina) or perhaps I was holding my breath, clinging to the edge of the bench seat as if for dear life and positively paralyzed…Sherlock's lips gliding slowly along my cock, his undulating tongue, his snugly convulsing throat, all moving at a deliberately middling, nonchalant pace even though he could feel that I was about ready to vibrate right off the damned - Bloody bird! It hit the glass that time, I'd swear it! Hopefully broke its blasted neck! I'm going to pull the drapes - this is ridiculous, ghost hounds and barmy birds! A man can't even stroke himself off in peace in this wretched place…
3.
It surprises me to realize that this is my first sleepless night on the tor. My accommodations, quite literally ancient though they may be, have been comfortable enough to provide me with such sleep as I require. A bit like reliving youthful days spent in my secret outside lair, really, although not nearly so elaborately provisioned. And of course without my loyal old friend, the weeping birch…
The nights are a bit quieter up here…fewer birds…distant sound of trees waving in the light breeze…the copse of trees behind Baskerville Hall is amongst that chorus, my empty perch in the pine tree is swaying amongst their number, and John must be snug under the blankets at this hour - no, not snug, hardly that; sprawled under the blankets, more likely…he's rather like a cat, looks perfectly comfortable while he sleeps, regardless of whatever bizarre configuration his limbs and spine have assumed…
He shall be here in a few hours; said he would strike out after breakfast…He's cross with me for concealing my presence on the tor…I revealed myself to him the day before yesterday in mixed company, forcing him to repress most of his displeasure, but I was met with stiff, military professionalism. Will you be needing anything else, Holmes? I shouldn't like to make Baskerville wait breakfast…He shall have gotten over most of it by the time he arrives. He will have to fuss at me, of course, but after a bit of a coo and a tickle I shall have him babbling away like a happy baby and he will be my irrepressible John once again.
As I pack a pipe and continue to muse, in the back of my mind I am beginning to prepare for the Ritual. Rather like an actor applying greasepaint before the curtains rise, I must prepare for my role. John - or rather a combination of the effect I intend to have upon John and my knowledge of his body, preferences, and reactions to stimuli - is my mirror, guiding me as I transform myself into character. To soothe his ruffled feathers and draw him back to me it would do to be a bit solicitous with my attentions…
It's not enough to simply do the thing, I have learned; one must be convincing about it. This is not to say that I get no pleasure from the Ritual; in fact, the pleasure can be extraordinary at times, and above all else it pleases me to satisfy John in a way that no one else can. And yet, while I have learned to manage my participation in the Ritual such that I can minimize the worst of the discomfort which results from my tactile abnormalities, it remains mentally arduous.
As I have said, it requires preparation. As the sorcerers of ancient Egypt tucked spells and amulets into the swaddling of their dead kings, I must don layers of mental defenses to slow the speed by which John inevitably strips me bare, until I am forced at the moment of climax to fully reveal myself. I must steel myself for the tension of balancing continuously between the urge to escape the discomfort of physical contact and the urge to pursue the vein of pleasure which runs through it. Pursuing this pleasure comes with the additional discomfort of the uncontrollable, embarrassing movements and sounds that it wrenches out of me, and it is this self-revelatory aspect of the Ritual which makes it utterly impossible for me to imagine partaking in it with anyone other than John.
Indeed, that I share it with John is the Ritual's only attraction. The release is enjoyable enough and is often physically energizing, but my deepest gratification comes from enrapturing John, using pleasure to gradually shrink his world until only I remain, in full command of his body and his attention. When I have achieved this, the Ritual becomes a performance: by stimulating him, observing and interpreting his reactions, I manifest whatever or whomever it seems that John desires. My pleasure often becomes mechanical at this point, a byproduct of the performance which I amplify and deploy for effect until at last it betrays me and I am forced to submit. It is shattering in ways both pleasant and disorienting; the latter results in an abstracted mood which lasts an hour or two and renders me incapable of applying my mind to any productive pursuit.
In spite of these aberrations, I do not dread partaking in the Ritual sacrament as I originally had. There are some aspects of the Ritual that I very much enjoy. Kissing John, the unusually intimate act of feeling another person's body with the thin, sensitive skin of my lips, is extraordinarily thrilling. Equally thrilling is being kissed by John in return. To have his sturdy bulldog's body pinning me down upon a mattress, his broadly muscular and finely furred chest bearing heavily down on me while his lips are pressed to mine and his tongue intertwines with my own is so pleasurable that I should be quite satisfied with nothing more.
I also very much enjoy basking in the light of John's complete and rapturous attention, as well as wielding over him the power which comes from ratcheting up his need while simultaneously withholding relief. It often becomes something of a competition that I hold with myself - how long I can keep John teetering on the edge of climax. Like a sculptor circling his block of marble to file away an imperfection here or enhance a contour there, I refine John's pleasure by using my hands here in this way, my mouth there in that way, stepping back to judge the overall effect before beginning another round, methodically stacking one stimulus on top of another, building John's pleasure until it is a quivering, swaying, trembling tower that can be toppled with the mere brush of a fingertip…I find this quite enjoyable, indeed…
I pack another pipe and continue my preparations…
4.
(continued from the journal of John H. Watson, October….)
(The follow portion of my entry shan't be included with my notes on the Baskerville case, for reasons which will soon become imminently apparent.)
By the time I finished breakfast, waited around the Hall to have an unrelated word with Stapleton, and finally struck out for the tor, I was in a desperate way, dear Reader. Aside from meeting briefly with him for an hour in a strictly professional capacity two days before, I hadn't seen Sherlock in almost three weeks - the longest stretch of time we'd been apart since our relationship became romantic. I wasn't even able to properly enjoy at least laying eyes on him for that mere hour because I was so furious with Sherlock about lying to me regarding his whereabouts.
And of course he wasn't recalcitrant at all, oh no, he was bright-eyed and chipper as a sparrow, giving me the "Come now, Watson," as if no one else could possibly be angry when he himself is not. I don't need him to protect my sentiments, it's infuriating - makes me feel like I'm a woman demanding that he throw his coat over mud puddles. Just because he can't cope with his own emotional turmoil doesn't mean I can't cope with mine. And I shan't even go into the amount of time and effort I expend protecting Sherlock's feelings! So help me, a couple of months ago he actually paid to have a telegram sent to me whilst I was at the club to complain about how long he was being left at home alone. The attendant brought it to the table right in the middle of supper so that I had to read it in front of the gents, which forced me to fumble through some lie about a patient and excuse myself - what else was I going to tell them? Atherton is "family," so to speak, and knows the full extent of my relationship with Sherlock, but no one else does aside from Mycroft. I couldn't very well make the kind of excuses that other men make about their wives (I'm afraid I have to return home, my husband has been feeling rather delicate…), and even at a table full of inverts I wouldn't dare tell the truth (my husband, the celebrated detective renowned for his intellectual bravado and acumen, can't tolerate being alone when he's bored and will start injecting cocaine in an effort to exact revenge upon me if I don't leave this instant and go home to wait upon him.) And yet Sherlock has the nerve to placate me with a "Come now, Watson?"
Those were the lines along which my thoughts were running as I made my way up the tor. I had no intention of wasting the entire day on pointless squabbling, but I was certainly going to have my say. Then I crested the top of the tor and there, in the distance, was Sherlock.
He was shadow-fencing upon an open expanse between some tumbled stones, a slender tree branch held in his upturned right hand, his left held aloft behind his head. He had stripped off to a snug undershirt, which was tucked into a rustic pair of trousers that he had rolled up in the style of breeches, his socks pulled up to the knee. Sherlock leapt forward and lunged, stabbing forth with the branch and then hopping forward with a stomp of his forefoot and lunging again more deeply, his long, skinny back leg straightening, his muscular little arse bunching up under his trousers. He sprang upright and then shuffled ahead with a quickly stamping forefoot, his left hand now propped loosely on his hip as with his right he swished the branch through the air in an aggressive series of parries and counterattacks.
I had never seen Sherlock partake in any organized sport and was enchanted to see my husband in this novel light. I was reminded of a conversation I'd once had with Mycroft in Sherlock's absence, when he'd briefly mentioned his brother's prowess with a fencing foil in his adolescence. "Sherlock's diameter wasn't much wider than that of his foil, but he would drive the other lads down the piste like a falcon bearing down on a hare; he was simply fearless and unrelenting," Mycroft had said, and I could now begin to appreciate what he had meant.
In this unguarded moment, with his hair unoiled and tousled by the stiff breeze off the moor and exertion having brought a pink glow to the hollow of his cheeks, I felt as though I were seeing Sherlock as he must have been as a lad, long before we had met or he had even come to London, playfully enjoying his solitude, and a rush of tenderness towards him wiped away most of my previous fury. How could I stay angry with such a vision, dear Reader?
"Out slaying dragons this morning?" I called, having approached him from an oblique angle and as yet unseen.
Sherlock straightened and spun around. Upon seeing me he pulled his body elegantly erect, raised the branch to his forehead in a solemn salute, and then dropped gracefully back into a sweeping bow.
"At your service, my lord," he intoned. By then I had reached him, and he bent his head to brush his lips against mine in greeting. This is a relatively recent development - Sherlock initiating kisses upon meeting in private - and I felt my resolve to at least be highly irritated with him further weakening.
"Well, you can limit your chivalry to the dragon killing from now on, Sherlock, rather than lying because you think you have to protect me from something." I was still going to have my word, by God.
"My liege," Sherlock said, closing his eyes with a dip of his tousled head. When he opened his eyes again they scanned my face, a hint of playful, boyish appeal in his expression that completely vanquished my anger with him. Much to my annoyance I found myself slipping my arms around Sherlock's waist, my hands running firmly up his back so that I could feel the silky heat of his skin through the thin cotton shirt as I pulled him into me. I turned my head to press my lips against his neck, luxuriating in the familiar smell of his skin and hair and feeling a distant stirring in my loins at the faint scent of his sweat. Being the most fastidious of persons when it comes to his personal hygiene and not given to athletic pastimes, I have only known my husband to become sweaty during our intimate exertions and the association seems to be a permanent one, whether we are in bed together or not. I felt Sherlock's arms wrapping around my shoulders and I tightened my arms around him, squeezing him until he made the little grunting, sighing sound in his throat that means just right, and for several seconds we simply held each other.
"You're a sight for weary eyes," I murmured.
"I should be a better sight if you would be so good as to trim up my neck for me," Sherlock replied, disengaging from my embrace and reaching up to feel his nape.
My stomach sank and I felt the amorous tenderness which I had been engendering for Sherlock drain abruptly away. I had trimmed his neck for him on several other occasions and it invariably leads to words, as Sherlock detests having his hair messed with and, for reasons which absolutely mystify me, refuses to comport himself like a grown adult for me in the way that he is perfectly able to do for the barber. He will lay virtually comatose upon the sofa for hours without moving a muscle, but as soon as I'm trying to shave his neck with a bloody razor he starts wriggling like an eel.
I stepped around to peer at Sherlock's neck in hopes that he was merely being fussy, but after nearly three weeks on the tor the parallel trails of hair that trickled down either side of his nape were undeniably longer than he would have ever let them get otherwise.
"Very well," I said, not quite managing to suppress the sigh in my voice.
While Sherlock gathered his things I hunted for a fallen slab of stone near his hut with a flat expanse that would comfortably seat both of us and waited, watching the warm late autumn sun burn the dew off the grass of the rolling moors that stretched out below. At least it's a picturesque spot for a tiff, I thought optimistically as I sat down.
Only seconds later Sherlock reappeared from the hut and, glancing around and espying me on the boulder, ambled over whilst I scooted back and made room for him to sit in front of me. After handing me his razor, a jar of shaving lotion, a soiled undershirt in lieu of a towel, and a tin cup of water, Sherlock turned and sat down in the space I had prepared between my legs. While I opened the razor and, having no brush, wetted the lotion with my fingers, Sherlock busied himself with rolling down his trousers. When he had finished I dabbed the lotion over the short, fine hairs at his nape, picked up the razor, and stilled Sherlock by laying my left hand on his shoulder.
I was holding the razor poised over his neck and had opened my mouth to tell Sherlock that I was about to begin when he said: "One moment, please," and abruptly leaned over to dig his cigarette case and matches from his pocket.
Here we go, I thought, my previous irritation with Sherlock coming back in a rush as I literally bit my lower lip to keep from snapping at him. This is the sort of thing that he did throughout the past occasions when I had been tasked with trimming his neck, and which had eventually caused me to lose my temper - more out of fear of cutting him than anything else. But, to my surprise and wonderment, once he had lit his cigarette Sherlock was docile as a lamb during the entire shave - which only took a fraction of the time since I wasn't stopping to argue with him after every swipe of the blade. He did shake his leg as he is wont to do when restless, but I felt that it would be picking at nits to complain about such a comparatively minor detail. And besides, Sherlock's good behavior allowed me to become aware that his foot-shaking created the slightest wiggle in the narrow hips which happened to be wedged snugly between my upper thighs, and I certainly wasn't going to complain about that after almost three weeks.
Having dispatched with this chore and being miraculously still on speaking terms with one another, Sherlock and I took a long ramble about the moor and down into the village for sandwiches and beer at the local. By the time we made it back up to the top of the tor the afternoon was growing late. Sherlock ducked into the hut for a moment, and I meandered about amongst the hilltop's ancient, lichen-covered ruins. With Baskerville Hall hidden at the bottom of the tor behind and no signs of civilization in the vista ahead, it was easy to imagine that I had traveled back to a more primitive time. I had hoisted my rump up onto the toppled wall of a nearby structure and was turned halfway round, studying the structure's interior when Sherlock approached with his pipe and tobacco in hand.
"Considering a change of residence?" he asked. I turned around as he leaned his hip against the stone upon which I sat to pack a pipe.
I grunted. "Might be more comfortable than the bed at Baskervilles; it's like wallowing about on a blancmange."
"Having a bit of trouble sleeping, are you?" Sherlock asked, striking a match and cutting his eyes over at me whilst he lit up.
"A bit…Why?" I asked with a note of suspicion after I thought I saw a hint of amusement in Sherlock's eyes.
"You've just been looking rather peaked in the mornings," he replied blandly. Before I could pursue any further query Sherlock stuck his pipe in his mouth, stepped over, worked himself between my knees, and turned around to lean comfortably back against me, his left elbow propped casually on my left thigh. And of course I folded him up in my arms, resting my chin on his shoulder and gazed out at the countryside while he placidly sent periodic plumes of smoke drifting upon the breeze.
I was certainly not gifted with the towering intellect and penetrating powers of observation which has made my husband the bane of London's criminal underworld, but I do possess a certain practical, everyday intelligence and understanding of my fellow man which can be a power of its own when dealing with Sherlock in certain situations. He had not fooled me for a moment when he lured me into this tender embrace; he was merely trying to wriggle back into my good graces after being such a shameless ass for two and a half weeks, and I was more than happy to let him wriggle away. Had I not been so genuinely annoyed with Sherlock, I might have even played my aggrievement up a bit so as to inspire sufficiently elaborate and painstaking wriggling in return for my forbearance. When one has taken a spouse who essentially dislikes being touched in all of the conventionally amorous ways and who accuses one of attempting to "exhaust him to death" if an attempt is made to throw a leg over more than once a week, one must at times resort to subterfuge.
"You like exploring the moors," Sherlock said presently. "They appeal to your romantic and quintessentially English nature, these wild and windswept landscapes…What about taking a cottage here when I retire?"
It was the first time that Sherlock had himself brought up the possibility of living outside of London, which was his way of telling me that he had finally acquiesced to my desires. Although I had no doubt that he had strategically deployed this accession as another means of ingratiating me, it was a chip he had not lightly placed upon the table.
"In Dartmoor?" I asked.
"Mmm."
"I'm not sure I could imagine wintering in such a remorselessly stark landscape," I replied after a few seconds' consideration. "If you're hoping to appeal to my quintessential Englishness, what about Sussex?"
"Hmm…" (Sherlock has an entire unspoken language of hums, sounds, and gestures, and without even seeing his face I knew that this hum indicated he was giving my suggestion absent consideration.)
"…someplace near the sea, where we could stroll along the beaches and cliffs, without London's sooty building's perpetually looming over us…"
"Mm." (Still lukewarm on the leaving London bit.)
"Perhaps with a tidepool along the shore for you to study…"
"Mmm…" (Mild interest. I could tell I had sunk a little hook into his imagination with the suggestion.)
"You could take up ichthyology…"
"Malacology," Sherlock rejoined; "I find fish to be a bit dull."
"Quite so - Malleus Maleficarum, and whatever else you like," I said blithely and Sherlock made a scoffing noise. Sherlock plays the coquette by bringing me bizarre little gifts, like a bird helping its mate to feather its nest; I play the coquette by pandering to his intellectual arrogance.
"If you'd sell your practice we could get a place and stay for the summers until I retire - in Sussex, if you like. It would give you a nice long holiday in the countryside once a year as you're always wanting," Sherlock suggested, now working in another angle…the clever little so-and-so. He has wanted me to give up my practice since we became romantic and, while he has never elaborated upon his precise reasons, I strongly suspect Sherlock is eager for me to retire in order to have me with him in the flat at his beck and call around the clock.
"I'm only 38, Sherlock, and I like my practice," I told him for perhaps the hundredth time. "I like to work." I'm not yet ready to be your kept man, I added silently in my head.
"But you don't have to; I'm getting more cases from the Continent every year."
"Don't worry, love," I said, giving Sherlock's cheek a consolatory peck; "I shan't make you wait much longer…a few years, perhaps." Sherlock sighed lightly but astounded me by letting the matter drop.
"My investigations uncovered some local folklore you might find interesting, John," he said after a few moments. As I was too surprised by his change of subject matter to formulate a response, Sherlock continued: "A man working at the smithy claims that Baskerville Hall is haunted by a rather noisome ghost."
"Well, that's not very interesting, we're here because of a legendary hellhound."
"He was referring to an anthropoid ghost," Sherlock chided. "In fact, the man's description of the affected room and it's location within the house tallied very much with the room which you currently occupy."
"There's probably rumored to be a ghost in every room of a house that old."
Sherlock shrugged. "The legend was rather long, but it ultimately ended with the unwanted suitor of the daughter of Baskervilles past being done to death outside of your bedroom window one night when he had come to call upon his lady love. It is said that that he still occasionally appears to toss pebbles up at the windowpanes, hoping to summon his fair maiden."
The incident of several days prior, when I had been twice interrupted whilst trying to stroke myself off, came immediately to mind, of course, and now something about Sherlock's story was suspicious. In a flash I realized what had happened, but before I could say anything Sherlock had leaned over and turned his head to look back at me.
"It's all supernatural nonsense, of course, but I thought you might find it of interest," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
"A man deserves a bit of privacy, you know!" I huffed, and Sherlock twisted around between my knees to face me. He is incapable of disguising his delight in these situations, and the corners of his thin, rather delicately shaped lips curled up into a teasing grin as he saw the flustered look on my face.
"To conceal what I've seen so many times before, and in much greater detail?" Sherlock asked, snaking his arms about by waist. I made a half-hearted attempt to shove one of them away which Sherlock ignored.
"That's not the point," I griped, still feeling wounded and now irritated with myself for the childish blush I could feel scorching my neck and ears.
"My dear John, the embarrassment is all mine…" Sherlock murmured silkily, leaning in to lightly kiss my lower lip. "It was my shameful neglect which led to your desperation…" He kissed me again, pressing his thighs against the wall upon which I sat and sliding his hands down to the top of my buttocks, pulling our crotches into contact. "I can only humbly pray that you'll permit me to atone…" He said the last in a near whisper, his lips brushing my ear and sending a wave of gooseflesh rippling down my arms, then nibbling on my earlobe as I felt his fingers begin working at the top button of my shirt.
As Sherlock's nimble fingers opened one button after another, his mouth roamed from my ear along my jaw, and up to my lips, where he lingered to slide his tongue gently into my mouth. He kissed me slowly, tenderly, persuasively, so that I melted back and propped my hands on the thick, crumbling edge of the wall behind me, and, before I knew that he'd fully unbuttoned my shirt, Sherlock was pulling up its tails as his lips began to make their way down my throat.
How can I adequately describe Sherlock as he was on the tor, at his sensual best? Perhaps something like plunging into a deep pool of endlessly circulating hands and fingers, lips and tongues, arms and legs. I fear that a detailed, step-by-step description would quickly become dull because there is much repetition; Sherlock will cover the same ground time and again, varying the stimulus with each pass but never proceeding with any discernible order. Indeed, one of the things I find so extraordinarily exciting about physical intimacy with my husband is his unpredictability, a quality which I believe comes partly from his being naturally bright and observant, and partly from his entire lack of previous experience. His form of intimacy is intensely exciting because it is entirely his own; it wasn't shaped by experiences with previous lovers or even the normal preoccupations with fantasy and self abuse, and I believe it is for these reasons that Sherlock evinces a thrillingly original wildness when taking the lead in an amorous encounter.
After pulling off my shirt and undershirt, Sherlock had lavished one round of affections upon my naked torso and had half-squatted between my parted thighs with his knees against the wall, his knuckles and fingertips tantalizing my cock as he unbuttoned my trousers and brushed his lips against the hair on my lower belly. After opening the final button, however, and at the point where my other lovers would have removed my pants and moved on to the cock sucking phase, Sherlock rose to his feet and took me into his arms once again. His affections were more vigorous this time, gripping my arse and grinding our crotches together as he kneaded me with his lips, nipped me with his teeth, and laved me with his tongue.
By the time Sherlock had worked his way back down to my waistband I was achingly hard and more than willing to assist him by lifting my backside from the wall so that he could tug down my trousers and drawers. Momentarily distracted by resettling my bare bum onto the cold, rough stone, I was unprepared for the shocking and exquisite pleasure of Sherlock abruptly plunging his mouth down onto my cock, and a sharp cry escaped my lips. For several seconds I was frozen in quivering ecstasy whilst the snug confines of my husband's throat massaged the head of my cock, and then just as suddenly the pleasure was gone as, after first pausing to snatch off one of my boots and yank down the corresponding trouser leg, Sherlock sprang to his feet and crushed our lips together.
Using the saliva which he had left on my rod, Sherlock pushed his hand between my thighs and, over the course of the next several minutes, teased me open with his fingertip and then delved swiftly into me, whereupon I gasped as he began doing things to me which I find it impossible to describe. For one thing, Sherlock divided my attention by seizing my cock in his other hand; for another thing, I am obviously incapable of seeing what is going on with my backside. But it is also true that he has simply become masterful at pleasuring me with his fingers as a partial substitute for his excessively tender penis. Once Sherlock has begun working in a second finger, I lose all track of his precise actions as my awareness becomes gradually overwhelmed by the continuous pleasure he creates.
I leaned back on my hands, immobilized by pleasure as Sherlock's tongue penetrated me at one end, his lefthand fingers penetrated me at the other, and his right hand stroked my cock. At last I managed to shift my weight and free up my right hand to reach down and grip Sherlock's cock through his trousers. His rod was hard as granite and, when I tightened my fist, the way that it strained in my hand and the grunt of pleasure Sherlock made deep in his throat sent a surge of desire reverberating through my loins. After almost three weeks of being unable to lay hands or eyes upon my beloved, I realized Sherlock's amorous assault was making rather quick work of me.
"My God, Sherlock -" I gasped, breaking our kiss and staring at him in breathless surprise; "I shan't be much longer…"
To my surprise, he quit everything that he'd been doing and began working at the buttons of his trousers, his thin, agile fingers working with an unusually clumsy rapidity as if he, too, were feeling the urgency of an impending climax. As soon as the last button of Sherlock's fly popped open, my greedy hand delved into his drawers and closed around his smoldering cock, working it out of his pants whilst he wriggled out of his shirt and undershirt.
"…this way," I panted, aiming his cock low between my buttocks. Panting too hard to reply, Sherlock nodded and raised his hand to spit twice onto his fingertips - an act of my prim husband's which would have shocked me had I not been so eager for him to get his cock up my arse - before swiping them between my buttocks. He reached down to guide his cock and I felt its blunt, burning crown begin to press into me. Having been well opened by his probing fingers, I hooked my ankles around the back of Sherlock's legs and pulled him into me, ignoring my husband's surprised resistance, and for a moment we stared into each other's face with something like silent wonder until the final inch of him slid home and we both gasped. Sherlock's face went into a wincing melt which indicated that he was enjoying himself well enough, while I'm sure that I made some kind of absurd expression as the head of my husband's cock nudged the boiling, throbbing place deep behind my bollocks which it seems designed to reach, with its perfect length and elegant arc, and a superheated wave of pleasure boiled up within my groin and traveled down the length of my cock to burst with a dull throb at its head. No force on earth would have stopped me from having Sherlock in that moment, and I wrapped all four of my limbs around him and began to buck my hips as i pressed my lips to his neck.
There followed one of those blurted and half-nonsensical exchanges which often take place near the end of such intimate encounters.
"Wha - God, John, wait -"
"I can't..."
"John - you mustn't - good Lord -"
"Go on - I can't -"
"Wait - you mustn't -"
"God just do it Sherlock I'm not holding off!"
Finally realizing that he didn't need to wait for me, Sherlock jabbed his hips forward and promptly lost his balance on the uneven terrain, falling into me so that for the next several seconds we were both struggling to avoid going backwards over the wall, and my desperate clinging caused me to grind upon Sherlock's cock in a way that sent my pleasure spiraling rapidly skyward, waves of ecstasy boiling over from my groin up into the tip of my aching cock and oddly down to the very soles of my feet and, before I knew it, I was writhing in Sherlock's arms and loosing a glorious mess of a spend all over our torsos.
So shattering was my climax that I'm afraid I rather abandoned Sherlock to weather his alone, for when I returned to myself he was still and trembling in my clutches, his chin hooked over my shoulder and his breath coming in shuddering gasps. As soon as he had sufficiently recovered Sherlock stepped back with a slight stagger, his cock slipping out of me and leaving a lacuna of gratification in its place. He tucked himself chastely away and looked with a dazed kind of horror first at the mess upon my torso and then at the mess upon his own before he leaned over, snatched my undershirt off the wall, and began wiping at his stomach.
"I say, that's my undershirt!" I protested limply as I pushed off the wall and momentarily struggled to balance myself on rubbery legs.
"Yes, but you presumably have a clean one with which to replace it, whereas I do not," Sherlock replied. Acceding to his logic, I held my tongue whilst he finished cleaning up and handed me the shirt. As we proceeded to tidy up and dress in a companionable silence, I mused about how long it might have been since human beings had coupled atop that tor and happily imagined a primitive version of Sherlock and I, perhaps inhabiting one of the dwellings on the hilltop's periphery, until I ruined my fantasy by trying to imagine Sherlock wearing anything made of fur.
The sun was setting as we made our way down the back of the tor towards Baskerville Hall. Sherlock had brought a lantern but left it unlit, and he mused about the investigation as we made our way down the path. Although I was listening to him and responding as expected, I was distracted by a vague but growing sensation of oppression as we drew closer to civilization. Although the evening was becoming chilly and, now being without my undershirt, I was looking forward to getting beside a warm fire, along with that comfort came the necessity of transforming myself into another man - an anonymous quotidian gentleman doctor, a reserved bachelor who simply hadn't found the right woman with whom to settle down, rather than a living, breathing man who was madly, passionately in love with the beautiful and brilliant man striding beside me. The sensation felt heavy and horrid and hateful, even moreso because I couldn't assuage it by taking Sherlock in my arms and reaffirming my love for him with a kiss.
We paused at the bottom of the tor to say a brief and formal goodbye; it wouldn't do to linger or appear to be too cozy with one another. I couldn't resist turning once to look back at Sherlock's retreating form, only dimly visible in the heavy dusk on our side of the tor, and my heart throbbed with a love for him which felt difficult and bitter to contain. With a heavy sigh I turned and began making my way back to my bedroom, trying to keep my thoughts on the pleasant anticipation of a warm fire and the knowledge that, though he would likely remain unseen, my phantom suitor would come to call on me in the morning.