Title: Wild Reality
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Email Address: Cicero@sockiipress.org
Categories: Angst, first time (sort of, but not really)
Feedback notes: On list or offlist. Any kind of feedback will be appreciated, even if you just write me a one-line email telling me that you've read the story, and I will be happy.
Warnings: Nothing that I can think of.
Notes: I originally wrote this story with the song "There's a Place" by the Beatles in mind, and it had a corresponding title. I then changed it to the Byron quote after someone complained that the song was a bit too anachronistic. I have both quotes listed at the end.
Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes or Watson. I wish I did.
He was now cloistered in his bedroom, away from the all-seeing eyes of Watson. Sitting down at his dressing table, he picked up the small morocco case, rolling it around in his hands. He glanced into the looking glass and carefully scrutinised his appearance. He could understand why Watson was so worried about him. His face was drawn, his lips and ears were pale, and he carried about himself an air of weariness. It had not helped that tonight the atmosphere in the sitting room had been tense, almost like a barrel of gunpowder that was sitting too near an open fire.
Watson had once again lectured him on the evils of cocaine. He hated to see Watson's disappointment in him, but why should he stop? The cocaine dampened his emotional needs and gave him, for a little while, a welcome respite from his growing infatuation for Watson.
He sighed as his thoughts turned to his dear friend. Why indeed should he stop his injections? He enjoyed having Watson look after him and care enough about him to give him the same lecture over and over. If only the depression that followed the intense rapture of the cocaine was more bearable. Watson did not know of these depressions for, if he did, he would unquestionably do all in his power to free Holmes from his addiction.
He tried to calm himself, to stop thinking about the cocaine, but it was no use. The desire for the bliss from obligation was much too strong for him to fight. Nonetheless, he could not ignore the guilt that made his face burn with shame as he filled the syringe and sank it deep into the skin, piercing a vein. As he pushed the piston down, he could feel the slight burn of the cocaine as it streamed into his vein. There a rivulet of blood dripping from the small puncture on his arm after he removed the needle, and he slowly slid his handkerchief along the stream before holding it to the inside of his elbow. He was vaguely troubled when he found that the blood would not stop as promptly as he would have liked.
The lethargy hit him suddenly as he dragged himself to lay down flat upon the bed. The sheets felt inordinately cold against his fevered skin. He grabbed nervously at the sheets, feeling the normally soft wool scrape his sensitised skin. His thoughts turned again to the continual object of his dreams, whether they took place in the naked beauty of the night, during the day when he should be concentrating on his cases, or while he lay in drug-induced torpor. If only Watson were here, imprisoning his body, pressing him into the soft bed, loving him as he so wished to be loved. . . .
He did know how long it was before he became aware of the presence of another person in his room. He stared into the darkness, willing the phantom to come forward. Finally, it came closer and the familiar shape of Watson appeared by his bedside. He looked curiously into Watson's brown eyes, which were as familiar to him as the different types of sand, dirt, and mud in the English countryside. Many times Holmes' had looked into those eyes when he caressed needed support, comfort, friendship, assistance, and now they looked down at him with love.
Holmes closed his eyes as his heart fought to control the torrent of emotions threatening to stop it, as if mocking him for his love, threatening to cut him down before he could enjoy his new found happiness. He opened his eyes and gazed lovingly at Watson as he sat down on the small bed. Holmes found the energy to open his arms, welcoming Watson into his arms, and Watson eagerly returned the embrace, laying on top of Holmes' spare frame.
Watson slid his hand under Holmes' head and brought their lips together. Holmes growled as Watson's hot tongue swirled in his mouth, duelling with his own. Watson's other hand was stroking up and down his flank, searing the clothed skin, bending Holmes' leg up so that Watson could settle his hips between Holmes' thighs.
Watson tugged at Holmes lips gently before kissing him again. He then traced his lips over Holmes' face, kissing his eyelids, nose, cheeks, forehead, temples, and chin, before starting to nibble and suck his neck. Holmes allowed his head to fall back on the pillow, exposing more of his flesh for it felt so good to have Watson's satiny lips leaving wet trails along his neck, to feel the bristling of his moustache against his skin. Watson smiled against his skin and continued to worship his slim neck. Holmes closed his eyes, savouring these delicious feelings. At length, Watson raised his head and said, "You are wearing too many clothes, my cherished friend."
Holmes had scarcely nodded before Watson started to remove Holmes' clothing with tender, calm hands, tossing each article heedlessly away. Holmes moaned deeply as Watson's warm hands caressed each slender limb after each article was removed. When Holmes was completely disrobed, Watson sat back, allowing himself the visual pleasure of Holmes' naked body. Holmes saw the appreciation in his eyes and felt his shaft start to throb. "I want to see you, Watson," he whispered.
Watson smiled and stood up. Slowly, he removed his clothing, piece by tantalising piece. Holmes' shaft continued to harden appreciatively as Watson undressed. When the last garment dropped from Watson's hand, he turned around and allowed Holmes to gaze upon him.
Holmes did appreciate the chance to view Watson. He still looked the same, even after all these years. Slightly stocky than Holmes, he had that elegant military demeanour, but with a kindly face that almost always held a smile. His chest was covered in dark brown hairs that trailed down to his groan, framing a thick, distended erection. Soft hairs of a shade lighter sparsely covered his arms and legs. Even his feet were well formed, strong but subtlety muscled like the rest of his body. Once again Holmes held out his thin arms and, again, Watson came to him, enfolding him in a loving embrace.
Holmes pondered the new sensations that complete nakedness brought. Watson's chest hairs teased his nipples, hardening them deliciously, and Watson moved down his body, suckling them in appreciation. His mouth trailed down Holmes' torso, licking and nipping at the now sweaty flesh. His tongue dipped into Holmes' navel, and Holmes shivered in delight at the tickling sensation.
Watson combed his fingers through the damp fur surrounding Holmes' throbbing, engorged erection. He allowed his index finger to trace around the root and along its impressive length. He kissed the tip, then swirled his tongue over it. Holmes cried out, the moist warmth surrounded him, engulfing him, threatening to rob him of his reason. From far away, he heard Watson say, "Don't rationalise, Holmes. Allow yourself to relax."
Watson rolled Holmes to his side so that he could squeeze the pale buttocks while he continued to take Holmes deeper. Holmes felt the rush of violent pleasure coming from his loins. His release came fast and furiously and he sobbed once from the erotic pleasure of it.
Watson rose and kissed him thoroughly, allowing Holmes to taste his own essence. Holmes rubbed his sweat-slickened body against Watson, revelling in the complete abandonment of their former attitudes towards each other. Holmes reached his hand down to curl his fingers around Watson's erection but Watson stopped him. He looked into Holmes' dusky eyes and said, "We can go even higher, dearest. Let me have all of you."
Holmes nodded shyly. He had read many a diverse subject, and he understood what Watson wanted to do now. Watson cupped his cheek and said, "Don't be scared. I won't hurt you."
Holmes kissed him and said, "I know you won't. I trust you."
Watson's eyes shimmered as he said, "Thank you for believing in me."
Holmes turned onto his stomach as Watson reached down for a jar of cream. He unscrewed it and dipped his fingers in, coated them thoroughly. Holmes turned his head to watch as Watson carefully stroked his entrance before inserting one finger. It was uncomfortable at first, until Watson stroked against his prostate. The fiery pleasure made Holmes gasp. Watson smiled and continued to stroke in slow, languid movements, allowing Holmes the chance to get used to his finger. When he inserted another, Holmes stiffened, but the carnal delights it invoked lessened the pain.
When Watson removed his fingers, Holmes was surprised to feel the loss so keenly. Watson arranged Holmes so that he was resting on all fours. Watson knelt behind Holmes, and coated his own erection with more cream before taking it in his hand and rubbing it slowly against Holmes' entrance. The first push stung somewhat but as Watson started to slowly thrust into his body, the pleasure began to build again. Holmes could feel himself growing erect as Watson started to speed up his thrusts. Holmes felt the animal desire course through him, and he wanted more. He pushed back as Watson plunged forward and he heard Watson's grunt of pleasure. They quickly learned each other's rhythm and the fast slapping of thigh connecting with buttocks filled the air. Watson reached under Holmes' stomach and stroked his erection in time to their pounding.
Holmes didn't know how much more he could take before he would be split in two. Their grunts and moans sent his mind spinning round, and he gasped for air to stop the furious motion. He felt Watson's erection jerk and throb before expelling his seed into Holmes' body. Holmes felt himself release, the pale cream covering Watson's insistent hand and falling onto the crisp white of the sheets. His chest heaved as his head fell onto his crossed arms. Watson was still throbbing inside of him, and he knew that he would be deliciously sore in the morning. Holmes' legs finally collapsed and he fell completely onto the bed. Watson's hard, sweaty body joined him on the mattress as they sought to catch their breath.
Watson rolled to his side, running his gentle hands across Holmes' back. They smiled shyly at each other, but Watson bent and kissed Holmes' temple softly, reverently. Holmes closed his eyes as he was cocooned in arms that felt . . .
Clammy. His body shot up from the bed and he saw . . .
Nothing. He was alone in his tiny bed. The sheets were tangled around him, and his body was covered in sweat. He was still breathing hard, and his head still swam wildly as if he had been drowning. He shivered, realising that he was naked, and alone. So very alone. He fell back into the bed, curling his limbs into a tight ball, and sat in desolate silence for a long time.
The sobs, when they finally came, were the low, mournful growls of a proud lion lying broken and helpless, unable and unwilling to call for help.
Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality.
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.
"The Dream" by Lord Byron
There's a place where I can go
When I'm alone, when I feel blue,
And it's my mind, and there's no time,
When I'm alone.
"There's a Place" by the Beatles
Return to Cicero's Fiction.