Archive of Our Own ^beta

It happened in the early days of our acquaintance, although sometimes I am surprised that it occurred as it did. It was before Holmes’ name had become coupled with crime. While there were the dark corners of Whitechapel where it was spoken with hesitancy, it would still be a good many years before my first case ever reached the printing press and took the man from notoriety to celebrity.

During those early years Holmes would only take me occasionally with him on cases, and back then sometimes I believe he forgot that I might be party to whatever mad chase he embarked on.  We enjoyed the comforts of our companionship, and during especially morbid cases he would have me advise upon certain attributes of the death (although too frequently his own deductions would have surmised as much before I had even seen the body).

There was little reason to expect a case when the series of events around us fell into being and set the scene. The weather had turned from autumn to winter in a flash of snow and ice, the sudden change causing even the criminals to disappear underground. It proved too cold for any street crimes, and too early in the season for murders of passion wrought by a winter at close quarters.

The season had brought a type of quiet to the flat that I thrived in, but Holmes regularly found to be noxious.

I had begun to worry concerning Holmes’ sanity. At first he had been a tizzy of half laid out experiments that were to be abandoned just as they began to prove hazardous to the living quarters. After a week or so it had slipped instead to cocaine stupors that I first ignored, but later began to contemplate various ways which I might distract him from.

I had just begun to consider intervention when Holmes sprung back to life. I found him gone from the flat when I returned home one evening without a hide or hair remaining.  I nearly worried when it moved from one day to two, but just as the man would go a week without speaking, his hours had proven to be nearly as erratic as he said. Indeed, the weeks prior had been arguably the most I had seen him at one time during our acquaintance.

The third day I returned home to find a man speaking with Holmes’ in our sitting room. At first I presumed he must be a client, for Holmes’ manner was that of when he often worked out the peculiarities of a puzzle. His fingers were pressed beneath his chin, his gaze fixed on the other man’s face as though contemplating his inner secrets and working of the soul, and he was curled into his chair into what I had come observe has his thinking position.

Except something remained amiss.

For one, Holmes’ was still in his dressing gown, which was not unusual in some circumstances, but seemed at odds with the scrutiny and alertness shown on his face. Furthermore, the man across from Holmes remained entirely at ease. It was he who seemed to have the upper hand, and there was an easy going smile playing upon his lips. He was well dressed, albeit bohemian, with an outlandish waist coat on the chair and his buttons undone at the top. His face was framed with romantic curls and a clean shaven face, and I noticed (in a deduction that would have even impressed Holmes) hints of paint staining his garment and fingers implying an artist by trade.

“Mon Cher,” said the man to Holmes. “Of course I shall. But then, you must know how long I have awaited such an opportunity.”

“By Tuesday,” Holmes watched the man over the tips of his fingers. “That will give you time to gather your end of our bargain, and we can discuss the semantics then. “

“As you like, Monsieur Holmes,” said the man lowering his head just a hint before turning and letting himself out with just the slightest glance in my direction.

I settled into my regular seat, while Holmes stayed caught up within his own thoughts. After several minutes had passed after the man had left I ventured a guess, “Case?”

“Only in the vaguest sense of the term. There is a case, but Henri is not involved. I am seeking some information that he may be able to provide, and I believe we’ve come to an agreement. His art hangs in the galleries that I need information concerning, and I believe it would be both faster and simpler for him to procure it for me. I could infiltrate it myself of course, but artists can be solitary and secretive and I do not have the time where this case is concerned. Not when the matter will by over within the week by having someone else already set in place.” He picked up his pipe, and took a long smoke before settling back into the seat.  

I admit some surprise at the use of the other man’s first name, and the slightest hint of French inflection that came with it. I knew Holmes was fluent, but at that moment I might have thought him Parisian.

 “You know the man then?”

“I spent some time in Paris. Henri and I met there briefly and for a while our circles interconnected. My great-Uncle was an artist of some acclaim, and I admit I utilized the doors it opened while I was in France. It is unfortunate for me that the same community of artists does not reside here, but enough that Henri has been showcasing his works and will provide me with the necessary in.”

“Ah,” I did not quite see, but then it was he who boasted his skills of deduction and I only ever implemented them occasionally.

As for art, I had some small skill at sketching, something to impress lovers and enough skill to score perfect marks within the study of anatomy. It was first in medical school that I realized my talent for it, and while I found it as something pleasurable to pass the time, I could hardly be called an artist. That said, I knew even less of the community.

“And I am afraid that my own poor attempts at art would not pass that of any critic,” Holmes had continued speaking and pulled me from a reverie. I caught a bit of a smile at the edge of Holmes’ lips. “I knew enough with my connections to allow me in the salons, but I am afraid that it was my love of music that had brought me to France. My skills at sketching could hardly be called passable.”

Perhaps it was wrong of me to take joy in the acknowledgement my friend was not infallible, but there was a pride that in this I may have a skill beyond that of Sherlock Holmes. Too frequently he managed to outshine even my slightest attempts, and later even my readers would question his abilities. How can any one man have so many accomplishments and make each seem so simplistic? Unnatural, impossible, and even I grew tired of the seemingly endless talents he held at every breath.

Yet that said, here he had agreed to some artistic pursuit with the man named Henri. I felt my victory slightly diminished, and instead my curiosity piqued.

But it was none of my concern, and he had settled back into his chair leaving me to my own thoughts once more.

It was some days afterwards that I awoke late in the afternoon.

My leg had bothered me, and I slept poorly much of the night. The faint light was not enough to wake me entirely at my normal hours, and I am afraid I drifted off and stayed in bed until a rather unseemly time.

There was a chill in the room, and I was slow in gathering myself. I had my dressing gown around my shoulders and debated if I should simply crawl back into my bed and call the day a wash when I heard the voices from outside my door.

“Mon cher, Truly? No longer Vernet then, even for me?” said a man’s voice with a hint of amusement.

I heard Holmes laugh through the door, “Another time and place Henri, perhaps I will return to him at some point, but it was a time for Paris as you well know.”

“Mais oui… Je ne peux pas vous inciter à parler français alors?”  “Non Henri. Quelle est la phrase ? When in Rome fais comme les Romains ?”  I could hear Holmes clear his throat, “Now then, we were discussing the matter at hand. You realize, of course, you are not as exempt from the case as you should like to believe. While I may attest to your innocence, the Yard will scrutinize any foreigners possibly connected to the gallery. As such, there remains the probability you may yet be involved.” “True but a risk I am willing to take for the trade.” I could nearly hear the dissension in Holmes’ voice, “I had thought you’d given up on this ridiculous notion of yours.” 

“Ridiculous? I suppose, but then I have held onto this ideal long before the more abstract of my absurdities in my recent artwork. You’ve agreed to sit and you would not have me to do something as boring as a portrait I should think?”

I heard a snort from Holmes and a clink of his mug upon the desk, “I had thought you beyond such romantics. Really Henri, leave that for the pre-Raphaelites and poetics.”

A bright laugh erupted from the artist, “Perhaps. Though I would not bedeck you in a garden with shadows and wreaths of flowers, worry not. You had said you would prefer to not leave your rooms, yes? I had some thoughts that would make that an easy task. Please mon cher, do not make such a face. True a classical idea, but I think you’ll find it unusual enough. I had thought it would fit you well when you were with us in Paris. I admit I am glad that I held back, as I think the years will have added to the aesthetic.

Silence.

I nearly took that as the plunge to go through the door and fetch the tea (or perhaps at this point brandy) that I was craving, but Holmes spoke up first with a questionable tone, “You do understand Henri, this is simply a portrait. My time in Paris was some years past. I am afraid with time my interests have changed.”

There was more of the bright laughter, and a murmur in French that I could not make out. Indeed—there was a bit of time that I heard French from the both of them before the man laughed again, “So serious Holmes. Ah you always were. As you like. I have found other company here in London, and the city had its own bolt holds of bohemia. I am more surprised you do not go yourself, I should invite you along-“

“-But I would not accept.”

A soft hum and then, “Is it your flatmate then?”

The silence permeated through the door. When Holmes spoke this time it was rougher and less assured, “Watson has little to do with the matter. He is a find upstanding British gentleman who I have the pleasure of sharing rooms with.”

“A shame, I had thought perhaps he might be so inclined towards our circles such as we had in Montmartre.”

“He is no Bohemian I assure you.”

“Non mon cher, that would be you.”

Silence once again, and then a rustling of steps. Holmes spoke once more, in a stern voice leaving no room for further comment,” I believe it is time you are on your way. It would appear my flatmate has arisen and is waiting to come down. You have supplies to purchase and any props you wish to obtain. I will see you later this week, and you will have the names I requested?”

“Of course. And a list of the studios as well.”

“Excellent. Until then”  

I let myself out of my room. Holmes had called me out so there was little purpose in pretending otherwise. He did not speak as I entered the room, although the artist turned his head to glance my direction with a “good day” before leaving.

I thought for a moment about inquiring precisely at what Holmes had meant, but there was a flush in his cheeks and his eyes seemed ill at ease. Indeed, it came with little surprise that as I returned to the room he was preparing a dose of his abysmal drug. Here again my tongue nearly ran away with me, but for a moment his eyes flickered to mine and I saw a plea for silence resting in them.

I could not bring myself to hold back anything from the man, even in this, and as such excused myself to my rooms contemplating the exchange in my own quarters.

It was a matter that might mean little or a great deal indeed, but Holmes would point out the impossibility of making a proper deduction without all of the facts. Nor would it would it do either of us any good to jump to conclusions.

I began to suspect it would be a long winter. 

Some days later Holmes surprised me as he waved two tickets to the opera for that evening.

He knew of course that I would be home, and seemed to have gathered I was feeling somewhat better than I had all week given what the blasted weather had done to my leg.

“We may as well enjoy ourselves,” he said stretching, “Before this damnable snow gets any worse.” His mood was surprisingly good, and he seemed somewhat reinvigorated. He’d been out the entire day before, on what I suspected was the current case (of which I had still not been privy to the further details ) and he had proceeded to spend much of the morning with a tea and a dressing gown staring at the ceiling.

It was a pleasure to see him in old spirits, and I admit I had been curious concerning the new production of Die Zauberflöte, which had been brought over from Vienna with brilliant reviews. There had been commentary concerning both the performers as well as the fantastical applications of pyrotechnics and automatronics that were to be supplied during the performance.

I admit I had once more grown accustomed to such aspects of the London society, slipping back into place with tickets that often fell into Holmes’ hands, or an occasional musician that invited him to concertos. I often have thought that should Holmes not have pursued the field he did, there would have been a place for him in any concert hall in Europe or the Americas.

That said, I selfishly reveled in the fact that it was I who stood privy to the private concerts kept in our sitting rooms, though there rose the occasions where his tendency towards mayhem rather than music may have made up for this.

It was always a pleasure to attend an event with him. You could see him un-wrapping the music as he might a case, and here he began unravelling the tricks as well. During the first change he leaned over pointing out the pulleys that would send the bird soaring, and the carefully hidden pots along the front of the stage that would alight two scenes later.

By the first intermission I had begun to think I looked forward more to his illustration of the performance, rather than the actual opera itself, no matter how fantastical the show.

Of course, his knowledge of the musicians was another endless cascade of wealth. He would provide the backgrounds and achievements of the good ones, or a vicious unraveling of the tenor who Holmes’ swore only received the recognition due to his affair with the musical director’s wife.

There was a difference in that evening’s setting. I found the occasional glance in my direction, and a gleam as though a thought had passed that Holmes wished to speak, but found himself unable at the last moment.  In fairness, it may have been my own consciousness placing it upon him.

I had been dwelling upon what I overheard the days prior. Holmes was inconceivable at the best of times, but here was a new puzzling new addition to dwell on.  The idea of Holmes, just out of university, traveling abroad among bohemians? It was not difficult to imagine him wandering the streets of Montmartre, though I doubted he would have visited in the same locales I had frequented during my brief visit during my service days.

There had been something else hinted at as well, but I began to think it was my own vivid imagination that left fancies to their own molding. Perhaps it was wrong of me to allow them to run away like that, but-

I was jolted back as the Queen of the Night began her aria. Thank God Holmes seemed too enthralled by the performance to pay my own thoughts any mind, and the box too dark for him to see the flush that painted my cheeks.

Best to continue as were now, even if our somewhat peculiar partnership failed to yet have divined into something with a precise name.

I turned my head away from him, and listened to the Queen of the Night sing.

It should not have surprised me that the in the days following, Holmes had once more seemed to disappear from view. There was an occasional cup and a half-eaten slice of bread forgotten on the mantelpiece that told me he must have come home, yet I had yet to be deigned with his presence.

It was not until Friday that the matters changed.

Winter had fully settled in, and I left my practice to find that the snow had caused the streets to become nearly impassable. I had initially planned to attend my club for an evening at the tables, but my leg was sore and I felt a bit petulant at the continuing horrid weather.

I found myself in a hansom and back at Baker Street before the sun had quite fully set.

Dropping my coat in the hall, I slipped into the sitting room with the thought to pour a brandy and go over a manuscript I wished to work on, but once inside I stopped short.

The room was transformed.

Rather, it was the same as it had been, yet I should hardly have recognized it beyond the normal catastrophe that Holmes seemed to wreck upon it.

A roaring fire was lit, warming the room and casting a dim light upon the area. Gaslights were turned down, and it was infused with a yellowish glow, basking like the rays of a fading sun.

The lighting had me pause, but it was the tableau in front of the fireplace that stopped me completely.

Books were piled precariously in front of the hearth, carefully stacked with philosophy, anatomy, and other subject matters of learning. One was open to the Orestaia with a statue of Apollo on the reflecting page.

Perched upon the books lay Holmes’ violin, meticulously arranged and a handful of sheet music making the bedding on the floor.

And in the center of it all reclined Holmes.

I daresay, had it not been in my own sitting room, I should not have initially recognized the man. Even then it took a moment to gauge that I had not given into some flight of fancy.

His carefully combed hair lay mussed upon his forehead, and his piercing eyes were focused at some point across the room where the firelight played. His bow hung from one hand along his side, and the other he absently perched his head along his fingers.

He was also nude, excluding a carefully placed piece fabric, dusky gold, that dipped at his waist and draped eloquently over his extended leg before falling short at the one that sat bent.

I had never before had the opportunity to appreciate the form that Holmes cut. He was lithe, frequently bordering upon too thin, though now I could see how much of it was compacted muscle. It was not that I had never seen Holmes without his clothing, indeed, in the year and some months I knew the man, already he seemed to attract an inordinate amount of injuries upon his person.

I had not; however, had the opportunity to examine him without the coexistence of a maligning wound.

Here the firelight played upon him, and allowed me the picture I had not been graced with before. There was the tautness of the muscle, slowly rising and falling with his every breath. There were the faint lines from his arms, muscular and flexing from holding the pose for such a long while. His leg, smooth and toned from running amok over half of London on any given day.

He was not built in the physique of my cohorts in the army, but rather it was easy enough see the almost Grecian qualities that lay in his appearance. Slender and supple, dusky and smooth, and his skin a marble white that made him become something crafted by Michelangelo or Rodin rather than anything that could exist in a mortal form.

I was ashamed to find it difficult to hide my arousal, and I shifted, only then noticing the artist had turned at my intrusion. It felt intimate, something that I should not have stumbled upon, and I made to excuse myself when Holmes spoke up.

“Don’t be absurd Watson, your presence is hardly bothering us. I imagine you will be keeping to yourself to work on your notes. With the drafts that cut through your room and your leg already bothering you of course you should work at your desk here. As is, Henri will be done within the hour given the change in lighting.”

I could not help but notice, from the look on Henri’s face, that the artist did not share this opinion. But it would be deemed rude to leave now, when Holmes had so easily read the truth upon me. And while I had other thoughts preoccupying my mind, far removed from the earlier considerations of my manuscript, it would hardly been of a place to excuse myself to exonerate on those particular fantasies.

Instead I retrieved the brandy, and set about my desk to fail miserably at ignoring the presence of the others in the room.

Every change of shadow, every light, every crevice made me more aware. I had grown close to my flatmate, craved his company and the outings we shared. I admit that in the past few months, I had even come to feel a near sense of jealousy for those cases that stole his attention, and left me behind to continue the work in my practice.

Glancing at Holmes I began to perceive there was something else at work, something I was aware of but that had taken hold with a stronger fury than I had surmised. Until then I had been able to push away such ideas, leave such whims behind, but now I was finding it harder to allow. I felt a hand tighten around my chest, a hint of fear at what might spring from such considerations should they not be returned (and why should they? Holmes had never shown any sign of the softer emotions. Men or women, both were equally shown the same lack of interest when it came to such things).

Yet now I found myself trapped in our sitting room, with Holmes filling the role of a Grecian god, and a man who I had little doubt wanted him as a lover as much as I.

I thought, at times, I saw Holmes’ eyes flicker in my direction. Indeed, when Henri stood and murmured he would return the next day Holmes shifted, the cloth slipping down once more, and pushing me to bury me back into my book trying to ignore the final planning on when the piece would be complete.

I kept my head down, trying to allow Holmes his modesty as he slipped the sheet around him, before busying himself in retrieving his own dressing gown and put away his instrument though leaving the rest of the façade as it was.

A shame. Part of me had hoped he might have the urge to play, though by nothing more than my own fancies I should surmise. I could tell that Holmes had little interest in the scene that the artist had laid out. My own thoughts of Holmes, nearly nude, playing one of his tunes for me in our sitting room? Even as the image came I could see how unlikely, something for a novel and not day to day existence.

As it was, he moved to devour the case-files, lit a pipe, and for the remainder of the evening the event was forgotten.

The strange atmosphere of purgatory remained for nearly a week.

Only Tuesday was I successful in excusing myself from the tableau, given my leg was in dire need of a soak and provided a perfect justification that Holmes knew was unquestionably the truth. Yet every other day I would step into the room and Holmes proceed to read upon me another reason why it was impossible to escort myself from the strange sitting room.

By the end of the week I began to wonder if the man sought to torture me. Occasionally I could feel his eyes resting upon me, skimming over, and reading my skin. Twice I made the mistake to make eye contact, with the flames alight in his eyes, and a faint flush upon his cheeks. I should have had him there had not the presence of Henri been a striking reminder, and the cost of losing Holmes too great should he not reciprocate my emotions.

By the time the painting was nearly finished, I began to imagine the man was simply bored and felt the need to subject another soul to the stillness of the room. It was inconceivable that he could remain so long in one place, yet I supposed he could simply drift into his own thoughts and categorize his thoughts as he so frequently did when he lay in a stupor upon the chaise.

Meanwhile, I fell under the scrutiny of Henri as well. I could tell my presence unnerved him, and while I thought little of the man, it was obvious that in his mind I had committed some offense.

I should have found another outing to attend, a meeting, perhaps drinks with Stamford, yet another part strained for another glimpse of the portrait. I had long sense forgotten whatever iconography that the artist played with, and instead turned my fancies fully upon Holmes.

The wished to take away the thin mantle, and leave him bare. Twice already there had been times where I had seen the hard outline protruding from his thighs. The sheer fabric did little to hide, and it cascaded so carefully that just one movement should—

But no.

So it was, so entertained by my own fantasies, that I felt a cold sense of shock when I entered the room a week hence and found it devoid of life. Once more, Holmes was off, and only a scatted papers and names told me he must have had the final lead on his case. Irrationally I felt bitter, like an outsider that had been allowed a glimpse of a life he wanted, but could never have.

I weighed more heavily on my cane and pushed myself through the room to find the brandy. I sat up late, eyes fixed to where Holmes had rested the evening prior, telling myself that I was under no circumstances awaiting his presence.

He was not home that night.

I stumbled into bed, slept poorly, and told myself such idle thoughts were the hand of the devil.

Holmes was asleep in the chaise when I finally awoke the next morning. He’d had time to take off his waistcoat and roll up his sleeves. He’d a coffee next to him, not yet cold implying his state of being had  happened only recently. It was his way, to crash completely after a case, and here the man had failed to even make it to bed.

He looked so different in the pale morning light. His dark circles were more pronounced, yet his lines more relaxed. His hair had the same mussed quality that was strikingly unnatural from his normally careful grooming, and I gave into the urge to brush it away from his face.

Indeed, I found myself fetching a nearby blanket and laying it atop the man, rearranging his arms and taking care that I did not wake him, though I knew him to sleep like the dead when such spells took him.

The anger and passion I had felt the night before fell away from me. How ridiculous that my own want had etched itself against my companion? It was hardly the first case that I had failed to accompany him upon, and I shared little of my own history with the man. An occasional friend mentioned, yes, but I had my own secrets that I trusted Holmes would not pry into unless it were an absolute necessity.

Furthermore, how should I have provided any needful assistance? With the onslaught of snow I would have been less than useless. My cane would not have provided what it needed to, not when the muscles had been so taut.  My leg was only just beginning to feel more itself, but the week past had been a form of misery. I would have simply held him behind, and been more of a hindrance than a help.

Holmes had taken extra care during the past weeks as well, even if I had been too caught up in my own thoughts to notice. Making sure we had spent time together, even when he should have been caught up in his casework. And the evening itself, our seats at dinner had been closest to the fire, and even in the box there had been extra blankets prepared and enough room to stretch my leg without it growing sore from the length of the production. He had given additional advice when I had taken to my bath, and he had been correct that the sitting room was the warmest of our rooms.

How rarely did he say such matters plainly, always careful in their application, and if anything I felt myself fall all the more swiftly.

I left before he could awaken and see too plainly the emotions I knew flitted across my face.

“I had thought it complete!”

The words slipped from my mouth before I thought better of myself. I had come back to find Holmes once again lounged in front of the fire and Henri in the throes of his work. Here I had thought my temptation finally complete, only to find it once more sprawled on our hearth rug.

“The final shadows,” said Henri. “There were last details, and then the rest I shall finish in my studio. The final strokes will be done in just a moment si’vous plait.”

I swore I saw a smirk on Holmes’ face, and to spite him, went to his personal tobacco to fill my pipe and settle in for a brandy. Sure enough, the longing was there the moment the smoke curled around my face. If I were to find myself tortured one more evening, so could Holmes as he sat poised, unable to reach for his own pipe.

It seemed forever, as I fought not to shift which would inevitably let my arousal show. Here was the increasing danger, the knowledge this would be the last time to see Holmes so arrayed. I turned my head back towards my manuscript and found my hand wishing to sketch and keep the scene for myself.

Impossible. Holmes would know immediately and it would lead to questions that he might to easily see through. There was no probable excuse.

I was so caught up in my attempt not to change my person that I did not notice Henri leave until the door shut, and only then did I realize Holmes was still draped in the sheet and peering over my shoulder.

“Truly Watson, is this page so very interesting? Why you must have been looking at it for a good hour now,” I could hear the amusement in his voice, and felt a wave of horror as he reached down to brush the paper.

I glanced up to see the mirth in his eyes, and then to my utter amazement he bent down taking my discarded pipe and stole a few short puffs, carefully taking in my reaction.

I chose to ignore him and his ridiculous deductions, “I needed something stronger with this blasted weather. You can hardly blame me, especially when you have indulged in my own blend on more than one occasion.”

 “Of course Watson,” he continued his smoking as his eyes flickered over my manuscript. All the while I fought to ignore the heat rising off his body. His arm nearly brushed mine, and I could lean back and be in his arms in a second. Silly thought given he would be more keen to drop me than allow me to hold me in lover’s grasp.

He paused as he flicked to the sheet of paper underneath the manuscript, the page where I had begun his outline, but given up as impossible and planned to burn later. He paused even as I froze, “I had wondered after our earlier discussion. You are inclined to artistry yourself it would appear.”

“I daresay most surgeons worth their weight have spent some time on the human form,” I said in a voice that was both calm and business like. “I admit I was curious enough to try once more, but it seemed silly when there was someone else rendering something far better than I could manage.”

Holmes scoffed. He lifted up the sheet of paper and I fought down the rising panic as I felt his body warm and bare against my own. For a moment I thought I felt a brush of his cock against by side but I threw the notion to the wind. What type of man was I that I needed to fight down the urge to molest my flatmate in our sitting room? How many times had we gone to the Turkish baths together without such worries? How many times had I let such idle curiosity go past without dwelling as I did now?

I was drawn back when I realized Holmes was speaking, “Henri? Artist yes, yet his works are separate entities unto themselves. He does not capture life but creates a ridiculous phantasmal that reflects very little of the true image. I agreed because I needed the information he could give, and the man had been begging me for a sitting for some years. He has his portrait, I was able to close my case, and I found the entire thing ridiculous.”

He lay the paper back in front of me, his hand brushing my shoulder, “It was not so difficult for me to agree when I knew I would be nearly unrecognizable in the final piece. Though tell me Watson,” I looked up to see mirth in his eyes, “How ridiculous of a notion! Apollo? I should think I am closer to Hades than the god of the sun-“

I made to protest, although I admit I agreed.  Perhaps even Adonis, or Prometheus would have been a better adjustment.  Although at the moment I am afraid I might have found myself agreeing to anything Holmes asked of me.

“Why you fit the prototype far more than I.”

That caught me aback, “Me!?”

“Golden haired? A hint of tan that you never seemed to have lost, even after a year and more in London? Your military physique is far more classical than my lithe form from my martial arts of choice. You illuminate wherein I divine the remaining shadows. “

The compliment threw me aback, “I assure you Holmes-“

He moved away, stepping slowly to the fireplace, and I fought to keep my eyes above the waist level. Every step seemed precarious for the sheer cloth that had begun to look opaque in the firelight. “It doesn’t matter. Henri has his portrait, and I fear I took up a good deal of your time as well as mine in posing for it.”

My mouth went dry as he leaned against the mantelpiece with the sheet beginning to slip. I could see the curve of his buttocks and the growing crevice as the fabric fought to slip away. How easy to just step forward, slip a finger down and….

How the situation did not become me. Flushed and stimulated in our sitting room, unable to even have a proper conversation with my flatmate? It had been too long since I had last sought out company, and that would need to be fixed.

If only so I did not try in a moment of madness to take Holmes across our breakfast table it would seem.

It was then I noticed he had paused from his last reverie.

“Holmes?”

He did not look my direction as he said, “It seems rather unfair you should receive nothing in return.”

I was completely out of my depths.

“I—I need nothing Holmes,” I stumbled in-eloquently. “It was fascinating watching Henri paint, and I assure you I—“

“Perhaps it was better put this way then. I am curious,” he said tilting his head toward my desk. “I mentioned before, my great-Uncle was an artist and I later spent time in the salons. Too frequently artists portray what they wish to see once they become caught up in whatever muse takes them for a time.  Yet you mentioned life drawings- that your skills came entirely from portraying the situation as you see it rather than some misguided image in your mind. I am intrigued how it would differ for someone whose training comes entirely from a scientific perspective rather than romanticism.”

I felt my heart fluttering. I could not believe, at the time, what he was requesting. It was both unlike and like Holmes all at once: a prolonged experiment, one which he was both the subject and effect.

I thought perhaps I should mention even the most accurate of sketches lent itself to bias, yet as he turned back there was something else in his eye that caught my tongue and forced my hand.

“If that’s what you would like. Of course I should be so willing Holmes. When would you-“

The sheet fluttered to the hearth.

“How would you have me Watson?”

I fought back a strangled laugh, and even now I am unsure that I kept it back entirely. Holmes’ eyes flashed with worry, like a case that he perceived to have deduced incorrectly. I fought to keep my face carefully schooled and tried not to curse at the burgeoning erection fighting its way out of my trousers. 

“Holmes!” I managed to sound slightly scandalized.

“Oh please Watson, you’ve been considering this for the better part of a week now,” only now did I realize he still had my pipe in his hand. The smoke curled around him, settling on his skin, providing an almost shadow that played with the firelight, “But if I am to do so you must tell me how I should arrange myself.”

I managed the barest of directions, trying to keep my distraction to a minimum, “Lounging as you were before in front of the fire—yes go ahead and bend the leg but turn more towards me. Excellent. Yes keep the pipe-“

His eyes were half-lidded, his lips slightly open as I watches his tongue dart out to lick them, his free hand ran down his body before resting upon a book to provide better support. His hips were tilted out, slightly up, and his hand rested just above his hip bringing my eye along the line until I realized he was nearly fully aroused as well.

It was utterly filthy, like a satyr in rut the way his hand nearly brushed the foreskin. His shaft was longer, thinner than my own, but unerringly straight and it twitched as the smoke seemed to curl around the length.

I fought to pull my eyes away, focusing instead at shifting the chair closer. I set the sketch pad on my lap, fighting back a groan as the pressure brushed my own problem. The pencil flew across the paper, and I worked at distancing myself from my wants attempting the art of detachment Holmes managed so well.

Indeed, I took in every detail, every nuance I had been studying for a week now. I was no trained artist, but I had been trained to capture the muscles, the build, and every slightest shift of the body.

The abdominals, the curve of his inner thigh, the way his long fingers tapered and curled, his petulant chin, the sweet curve of his buttocks that grew rosy from the light of the fire, and the growing protrusion of his cock. Straight, erect, as though waiting to be taken into my hand, mouth, or slipped into my arse until I cried his name into my bed.

Instead I made do with the thrill that I should be the one allowed this private sitting and not Henri. Here I was privy to the true nature of Holmes. I reveled that I should be the one to be allowed to see such a compartment of intellect arrayed in nothing but light. It was I who was given the opportunity to capture it.

How false of the artist to try to apply a filter over it. Why bother to have Holmes sit at all? A god of knowledge and music? I could easily attest he fell into such a category, but why have him take a role to achieve the sight of his divine nature. Holmes was a god of his own making, and that made a far better story than trying to assign him to any role.

I could not have said how long I worked. I went through several sheets of paper in an attempt to capture his figure. Then I spent several more solely working on his eyes, feeling them boring into me as I fought (and lost) at rendering the spirit there. 

I set my pencil down, uncertain I had achieved anything at all even after so much time spent illustrating, but I looked across the room to see Holmes smiling at me. I felt a hint of warmth and an added flush in my cheeks. I realized bleakly that it was no longer possible to hide my own arousal, and I had long since stopped worrying that he might take offense to it. Indeed, given it was Holmes, I suspected he knew from the very first.

Looking at his easy smile I wondered if my affections may not be immediately cast back. You must remember reader; it was still a dangerous ground. How little we had known each other, especially given the years that I could not have known lay before us. How early in our acquaintance that all this happened. Eighteen months? Nineteen? It is hard to keep track when so many years passed after.

Yet I might have told you from that first moment, as he looked upon me and deduced my history, that I had fallen well and good. It was irrational, but then most things concerning Sherlock Holmes were.

He set down the pipe, and rose to his knees. At some point in the silence he had grown wary. I sucked in a sharp breath as he drew himself up to rest his arm against the chair I sat in. I glanced down, unable to look away, and shivered as the tips of his fingers brushed my thigh.

How ridiculous it must have looked. Two grown men, both too frightened of stepping forward and making the final plunge. It was I who risked it. I allowed my hand to slip over his, where his fingers played circles along the inside of my trousers. I guided it higher and only just managed another breath when the long appendages wrapped carefully around my engorged prick that I had led them to.

I met his eyes to see them searching my face, and I watched as he licked his lips once more. His mouth was slightly open, and I realized his own breathing had become labored as he maneuvered his body between my legs.  

“Oh God Watson, then I was not wrong,” his voice was hoarse and the pressure increased exponentially. The groan I let out was impossible to hold back, and when I felt the heel of his hand brush my balls I fought a yell.

I could not fathom the turn of events. I was not entirely unsure it was not some figment created by my idle imagination, or perhaps the esoteric fever had returned and here was another delusion that would seek to plunge me into madness when I woke.

Whatever the cause, I could not have said no. Nothing  could not have stopped me as I watched Holmes’ nimble fingers made quick work of my trousers, saw him run his thumb over the base of my cock. That would have kept me from forcing myself to pull him up and lean my head down to catch his lips with mine.

I wondered then how I ever imagined the man cool and emotionless. How willing I had been to see the façade that he provided to the rest of the world. The question ran through my thoughts as I felt his mouth open under mine, as his tongue darted forward to allow it to swirl into my mouth. I could taste the tobacco on his tongue, a faint hint of wine from before I had arrived, and something else that I deciphered was uniquely Holmes. I felt him cry out into my mouth, and I nipped aggressively at his lip. He bucked into me, his cock rutting against my leg like an animal in heat. My own over stimulated member gave a leap in anticipation.

I reached down, finally, finally allowing myself the pleasure of touching his marble chest. I coaxed him back onto the rug, the fallen damask underneath us, and slipped on top of the other man. Flashes of the shapes I had regarded came to my mind from the past few days.  My hands sought to memorize every crease that my eyes had taken in before.

I lowered my head, tracing my finger’s path with my mouth. I followed each inch like a man in worship, and venerated his body with my praises. I brushed my tongue along his collar bones. I took his nipples into my mouth, sucking and nipping until he cried out and they stood peaked and red from my administrations. I kissed each rib, each muscle, and buried myself in his taut abdominals before feeling the brush of his pubic hair against my face.

 Only then, when I had reached his swollen prick did realization strike me, and on my lips an amused smile fell.

“Tell me Holmes,” I said softly. I moved up, my hand still playing between his leg with light touches as I brought my head to his ear in such a way that the bristles of my mustache brushed his lobe and caused him to twist underneath me. “How many days were you hard during your portrait? How many times did you wish for me to take you once your friend left?”

He groaned again, “Watson….”

“Tell me.”

I watched his eyes fly open as he bucked into my hand that had caught his cock, “All of them” he murmured into my neck. His hand grabbed my collar, “Every time you walked into the room. On that first day? Watson, if you could have only seen the look on your face. It was unbearable. I wished for the case to be done, for Henri to leave, I could not focus for a moment even with the knowledge of a possible murder should I not do so.” My hand slipped back, and I gave a quick tug on his balls. The man buckled again, biting into my shoulder as I eased my hand back along his shaft.

Holmes writhed beneath me, “Watson...please… I… John….”

“And when did you deduce I returned your feelings?” How dare he, I thought to myself. How dare a man who could read what a stranger had for supper upon his sleeve put us both through such torture?

“-I hoped from the first. I-” he was panting, straining to get out the words. I heard the buttons of my own shirt scatter across the floor as they flew from their holes. “-I thought perhaps you were jealous of him. But you made no further move, and it is not impossible for a man to show arousal but not attraction to the same se—“

He cut off as I felt him remove my shirt the rest of the way. The moment it was off his fingers scored my back, his nails scratching along my spine and a single finger slipping into the back of my already opened trousers.

I spread my legs further apart as he added a second finger, and I considered what a scene we should make. I pumping the man’s cock, while he slowly began fucking me without fully removing my trousers.  

 “Mon Dieu” I heard him whisper and I jerked my hand sharply.

I bent my head down and nipped the joint of his neck. Hoarsely I murmured into his ear, “No more French Holmes. Later perhaps- for God knows it sounds heavenly on your tongue. But not now…”

He chuckled darkly and I gasped as his fingers found my prostate, “Jealous my dear Watson?”

I shut him up once more with my mouth.

Underneath me he truly was a specimen. Every touch caused him to shudder, every brush of fingers had him trembling, and eventually I was forced to slip mine into his lips to keep him from crying out.

I was not able to take him apart entirely, not as I should have hoped. We were both too caught in the fury and passion of the scene. We barely managed to remove my trousers, as I did his fingers dipped deeper until it was I who was fought not to cry out.

I had wished to take him in my mouth, but I had not the time as he came swiftly in my hand. Instead I made do with tasting him on my fingers, and savoring in the knowledge I now had some other part of Holmes as my own.

I could see the pleasure he grew from this, as well as the surprise, and I wondered if I was the first man to have done such. It was an acquired taste, I knew, but I was possessive in all things when it came my lovers, and too frequently it had proven to be the parting blow. I wished to take him apart, to taste and touch and fuck until every part of the man was mine.

Already I was thinking of the next time, when I could lay between his legs and take his pulsing member between my lips. Properly swirling my tongue around him, and swallowing him down until I could feel him fucking my throat. I could still watch him come apart and know here I was a singular entity.

For now I found myself turned over, one hand in my arse, as his other hand worked quickly to finish me off. I bucked into him, and I daresay begged for more. He kissed my neck gently as he fucked me with his fingers, and his skill here like anything else he did with his hands: exquisite.

When I came, it was with his Christian name on my lips, and firelight in my eyes.

It was remarkable we managed to keep ourselves and the books from getting singed by the fire. After we were spent, we both laughed at the ridiculousness of our makeshift love nest. It was I of course who did the cleaning up later that night, while Holmes watched from a nest of blankets on the chaise. We could never have left the scene for Mrs. Hudson to find, though I daresay I wished we could have left it for another round.  

As I cleaned, wrapped in a dressing gown, I fought back a groan realizing the man still lay nude upon the chair. I stopped and watched his face under the fading glow of the fire. He was at ease and his figure stretched out like a sinuous cat. I debated setting aside my task if it meant having that body underneath me once more, and I felt a jolt of shock realizing how far I had fallen for the man.

Seeing the same realization upon his face gave me an epiphany.

“You were courting me!”

Holmes turned in his basking and laughed, “What?”

I set down the books and sat next to him to run a finger along his side, “These past weeks, or was it months then? You courted me.”

He laughed and sat up to push back my dressing gown, “The Opera.”

“The concerts as well! The dinners you insisted upon but never ate at. Why… I dare say even those nights out to our club given it was only ever you and I there.” There was a slight chuckle from the man and I gasped when I felt hot wet lips suckle against my chest, “Dammit Holmes it will do little good to try and distract me. I’m trying to deduce something!”

“It doesn’t matter Watson,” he murmured and I found myself pulled down to the couch, a sharp nip of teeth cause me to buck and slide down underneath him.

“But Holmes-“

He lifted his head. I felt his hand slip along my side, and groaned when it teased along my base. “Please Watson. Had you not be reciprocal the effects that might have stemmed from such knowledge could have gone poorly for us both. Such outings are done among the closest of friends, so it is hardly unheard of for two bachelors-“

“Rubbish.”

“Perhaps.”

It was unfair how he had kept his control, but I was slowly losing it at the quickening of his fist. “But you know I do not draw conclusions without all my facts at hand. My data told me you enjoyed women, but your attraction to men was neither here nor there. Given the consequences were I wrong, you cannot blame my hesitance.”

He was right of course. I had the same reserves. Indeed, it had been plaguing me for the better part of two weeks. I sighed and slipped a hand along his cheek, catching his lips once more, “Quite right my dear man. I retract my question.”

But then I supposed it was easily enough surmised. I knew no other men who Sherlock Holmes had offered the possibility of attending to his work. At the time I thought it just a whim, or perhaps I was just a useful tool for his pocket.

Yet the years passed, and while inspectors at the yard came and went, it was only I who had the singular right to remain at his side.

We were partners in everything, and though we would face far more trials in the years to come, at that moment we were at the heart of things, two young lovers exploring a new horizon provided to us.

“I truly should burn these” I said looking over the drawings hidden away inside the desk. “Men have been hanged for less you know.”  

The art could hardly be called scientific, even if that was the cover that Holmes had given them. The smoldering in his eye, the blatant sexuality in which he had presented himself, it was a wonder I hadn’t devoured the man sooner if that was truly how he had remained positioned.

They were deliciously pornographic.

Holmes plucked them from my fingers and tucked them under his arm, “I think not” he said firmly. “Why I did request them after all. Indeed, I’d hoped perhaps you might deign to allow me to make me a matching set.”

I grinned and leaned up to catch his lips, “And here I thought you said you failed as an artist.”

“For you my dear Watson? I will endeavor to try.”