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After supper on the last day of the year, Sherlock Holmes and I left our cozy sanctuary of Baker Street and the crackling fireplace for a long ramble through Regent's park, arm in arm. I relished the warmth of his body next to mine as we reminisced about the past year, and clasped his hand in mine around my elbow. We had worked on a great number of cases that year, and thinking back on our successes and the people we had helped brought a warm glow to my heart even as the winter air chilled my nose and my toes in my boots.
We walked and walked as the evening wore on, and just as I was thinking that the threat of snow might actually manifest in the sky above us, Holmes fished his watch out from beneath his coat and said, "Let's go back."
The warmth of our flat after such an outing was like stepping into a welcoming embrace, and I shed my coat and boots with a groan and headed straight for the fire. Holmes traded his jacket for his blue dressing gown, toed his slippers out from under his desk, and went to pour a brandy for each of us.
"To the new year," said he, lifting his glass and handing me mine. We touched rims and sipped, and I smiled at the pink flush of heat rising in his face.
"Any hopes?" I asked. "Any resolutions?"
"Brain work," said he. "Gaps between cases of no more than three days. Consultations by the police on all of their most abstruse conundrums."
I grinned at him. "I'll see what I can do," I said.
He laughed, gathering my unoccupied hand in his and twining our fingers together. He pressed a kiss to the back of my knuckles. "Nonsense," he said, "I don't expect a guarantee out of you, only a promise that you'll be at my side for each of them, whether they be abstruse or commonplace.
I blushed and had to kiss his smiling lips. He kissed back at once, clinging to my fingers. He is a very sensual man, easily aroused when he is in the right mood. I could tell he was in such a mood now. He was interested in my seduction, and I intent on seducing. I let go of his hand to wrap my arm around his waist, pulling him against me. He murmured against my lips, and I heard the clink of his glass being set down on the mantle. Then his hands found the back of my neck, pulling me closer still. His tongue flickered between my lips, touching my tongue. He tilted his head, changing the angle of our kisses, and a blaze of heat went through me. I fisted my hand in his dressing gown for stability.
Holmes pulled back, licking his lips, and stared at me for a moment. To be the centre of that intensely focused attention had always been flattering, and was even more so now when it was inclined to amorousness. I tucked my nose in under his ear, breathing him in deeply. He smelled of pomade and warm skin, lavender soap and tobacco. He pressed his cheek against my temple. Then he tipped my head up with his thumbs and the slope of his nose, and applied himself to the inch or two of bare throat that could be reached above my collar. He bit me over my pulse, just digging his teeth in, and dragged his lips over that spot as I trembled. I heard myself make a noise, and made it again, knowing how he liked the sound. I was rewarded with a low growl, and Holmes's mouth back on my own. I tasted brandy and tobacco; home. I held him closer, bit his lower lip, and could feel the growing press of his erection against my thighs. I put my glass aside.
He let go of one side of my head to unfasten my collar studs; these and the collar he left on the mantle. We never were much for subtlety in our own home. Having uncovered more of my neck, he turned his attention back to it and began to bite and suck until I was certain I'd be covered in marks. Desire throbbed in my veins, tightening my nipples and gathering hot and heavy between my legs.
I let go of his dressing down and slipped my hands beneath, instead, tugging his shirt out of the back of his trousers. The touch of my palms against his bare skin made him moan. I pulled him up for another deep kiss, and he began to unfasten the buttons on my shirt.
"Shall we go to bed?" I asked, breathless, against his mouth.
"In a moment." He reached my waistcoat, had to stop and unfasten those buttons, and then went back to my shirt. In the meantime, I unfastened his braces from the back of his trousers and plunged my hand down said trousers for a handful of his bare arse. He yelped most satisfactorily. "Watson, I say," he muttered, as I laughed.
We let go of each other long enough to relocate to his bedroom, with consideration given to our landlady and the late hour. I wanted him in the comfort of our bed, anyway. Many trysts in the sitting room had been exciting and splendid, but I was in the mindset of something a little more subdued.
As soon as the door had closed he was kissing me again, this time pushing my waistcoat and shirt off my shoulders and running his long hands up and down my back. He paid homage to my old bullet wound, fingers skating across the exit scar in the back of my shoulder, and then embraced me tightly against his chest. His prick was hard, trapped down one leg of his slim-cut trousers. Mine was likewise straining against my flies. I wanted to be naked, touching him everywhere.
I nudged him toward the bed, and we undressed ourselves as we went, until we were down to the skin. The room was chilly with no fire in the grate, so Holmes and I climbed quickly under the quilts and embraced, limbs entwined and cocks bumping together.
Holmes rolled on top of me and kissed me deeply, tongue searching in my mouth. I moaned, clinging to him, and spread my legs, digging my heels into the bed. My cock was rigid and beginning to be damp at the tip. I ached to have him inside me, so I told him so.
His cheeks flushed pink and he tipped his forehead against mine. "Yes," he said, "I want you like that." His grey eyes sparkled in the low lamplight. I stroked his cheekbones with my thumbs and kissed him again.
There was Vaseline in the night table drawer, deep finger troughs in it already. Holmes fumbled the jar open, scooped out a generous amount, and moved down the bed, taking the quilts with him on his narrow shoulders. I didn't care. He nudged my thighs apart and smeared some of the jelly between my buttocks, at the same time taking my prick in his other hand.
The first touch of his tongue on my glans made me jump, but he quickly softened the touch with his lips and warm breath, enveloping me in wet heat. He licked away my dewed excitement and moaned when I slid my fingers into his dark hair. His fingers played against my entrance, massaging the exterior ring of muscle and coaxing it open. I was eager, tilting my hips and pushing my cock into his mouth. He bobbed his head up and down, his tongue teasing my slit. Lifting my head, I could see that his prick hung heavy and stiff between his thighs, the foreskin pulled back and the tip gleaming.
He lifted his mouth away to watch his first finger disappear into my body. He swallowed hard, his eyes dark and intent. That finger moved in and out of me slowly, warming up the second sphincter, and I let the heat and pleasure ripple up my spine. I slid my heels farther apart. His mouth found the inside of my knee, where he kissed and then nibbled me gently. Then he bent over me again, braced with one hand on the bed at my hip, and took my prick into his mouth once more. His searching finger sank deep, touching that spot inside me that made me groan aloud.
I could hear his careful breathing, stoppered when my cock sank deep into his throat and light and fast when he pulled back ton tongue at my head. It inflamed me, to think that his attention was so focused on my pleasure. I knew it brought him his. I carded my fingers through his hair and urged him to get on with it.
A second finger joined the first, its introduction slow and deliberate, but as soon as he was inside he rubbed that spot again and again, sending lightning through my blood. My cock pulsed in his mouth.
"Holmes, please," I whispered, stroking his neck and shoulders, pushing my heels against his knees.
He obliged, easing his fingers out and collecting another helping of Vaseline. This he smeared on himself, dark head bowed and fist working over his cock until I dug my toes into his hip crease and hissed, "Focus!"
That made him laugh, but it also had the desired effect in that he knelt up between my legs and slipped his hands beneath my thighs. I lifted my heels, pulling my knees towards my ribs, and he let out a slow breath as he parted my buttocks. I almost couldn't watch his face, so naked and unguarded was his expression. He licked his lips and dug his teeth into the lower one, his eyelids heavy with desire and his aim true. He sank into me carefully, meeting little resistance, and bent over me to kiss me with not a lot of finesse. I was full of him, aching with the stretch, and I cradled his head between my hands as we kissed. When he shifted his weight, it punched a little gasping breath out of me.
"God, John," he said, between kisses, "you're magnificent."
"Fuck me," I demanded.
Bracing himself on his elbows, he moved slowly at first, testing my limits. His forehead was tucked into the crook of my neck, his fingers in my hair and his breath warm on my collarbones. I kissed his cheek and ear, holding my knee with one hand and his spine with the other. Every thrust made my breath catch on a moan, and I heard him echoing it into the flesh of my shoulder. Then he pushed up onto his hands to look down into my face and increase the speed of his hips. This gave me room to get a hand on myself, which only made me clench down tighter on him and caused us both to groan.
"Slow," I said, and he obeyed, rocking his hips deep but not fast. I could feel every inch of his long cock, and I tugged on my own prick with more fervour. My hand was slick, moving easily up and down my aching length. "Holmes!" I gasped.
He slowed even further, adding a little jolt to the end of each thrust in that made me whine. I wrapped my arm under his and over his shoulder to get a grip on his hair. He swore, his head going back, and he began to speed up again.
"Say you're close," he begged.
"Dangerously," I admitted, feeling the tug of orgasm starting deep in my bollocks and being egged on every time his prick rubbed at my prostate. I could hold it off a little longer if I didn't focus on it, but the wave was approaching.
"Thank God," said he, laughing. I let go of his hair and grabbed his buttock instead, feeling the flex of his muscles as he fucked me. He went down on his elbows again, covering me with his body, but rather than hide his face in my shoulder again he put his forehead to mine and watched me as I neared my peak. It served to hasten the process, and soon I was clutching his back and gasping as my cock stiffened in my hand. His breathing got heavy, his own crisis near, and I had to kiss him as mine finally took hold of me. It was a sloppy kiss, little more than a clash of open mouths, especially as the moment I began to spurt he too was wracked with a spasm and we came together in a chaos of writhing, groaning, hedonism.
The kiss regained its coherency, and Holmes caressed and embraced me as we subsided. I worked my slick hand out from between us and held it aloft even as I tried to keep him from relaxing into the mess I had made of my belly. We were suspended for a moment, breathing together. His body was warm everywhere we touched, and his smile was one of amusement and satisfaction. His hair was a wreck. Color still rode high upon his cheeks. I kissed his face and mouth, the former reverently and the latter deeply. He sighed and sat up, easing himself out of me with care and stumbling off the bed to find a soft cloth.
His makeup kit on his vanity serves more purpose than disguise; many of the flannels there are put to use in situations like this. He found one, wiped himself clean, did the same for me, my belly, and my right hand, and then stood nude in the centre of the room to light a cigarette. I admired him full-length: his long, pale arms; his elegant bearing; his strong thighs, knees, calves, and feet; his glorious rosy prick, softening against the dark thatch of his pubic hair; his piercing eyes and soft smirk when he caught me looking. I smiled back, stretching my arms over my head and relishing the pull of my muscles.
He fetched the ash tray from the mantle and brought it over, handing me the cigarette as he climbed back into bed. We shared it in comfortable silence, curled together under the quilts. I contemplated all the things that had changed between us. Two years ago I was alone, full of despair, and now he was at my side again, warm, alive, carnal, and apt to blush at my overt expressions of affection and admiration.
Sherlock Holmes took a last drag on the cigarette, flicked it neatly into the grate, and tucked himself into the crook of my arm and shoulder. He lay his long arm across my middle; the hair on his chest tickled my ribcage. He pressed a kiss below my ear and sighed contentedly. The clock on the mantle in the sitting room whirred in preparation, and then its clear chime began to sound.
"Just think, Watson," Holmes murmured, giving me a squeeze. "It will never be 1895 again."