"Since when you call me John?" asked doctor John Watson, astonished.
Never before had Sherlock Holmes addressed him that way, by his Christian name. It was unusual but extraordinarily... nice.
"You'd be surprised," Sherlock Holmes replied with a charming smile on his handsome face. He was looking warmly at his companion. Standing there, all wet from the Reichenbach Fall waters gushing down, rumbling, he was staring at John Watson with a flirtatious smirk.
The good doctor immediately answered with a broad smile hidden under his bushy mustache. "No, I wouldn't." He glared at Holmes and for a split second their eyes met. A long forgotten memory hit Watson in a flash, the one that made him blush.
It was one of those dark and moody nights, during which Holmes stayed long awake. He refused to go to bed, providing himself with a substantial supply of tobacco and God knows what else; he maintained he had to think. He was on the case. While being in such state, he also rejected food, claiming it would slow him down. How strongly would not have Watson insisted upon changing those unhealthy habits, Holmes had never acted otherwise.
That night was not very different, the detective was sitting in his comfortable armchair; drowsy and unmoving, hands steepled under his chin, eyelids heavy and half-closed, when Watson finally put his paper away and stood up from the chair. He yawned broadly and glanced at his silent friend, saying, "Goodnight, I hope you're not going to spend the whole night in this position."
The detective murmured something unclear in reply, did not even opened his eyes, so after a second of hesitation, the doctor shook his head and left the room. He crossed to his bedroom upstairs.
He got himself ready to bed and fell asleep very quickly. Two or three hours passed, when a sudden noise coming from the room below woke up Watson.
He opened his eyes instantly, staring into darkness; he strained his ears, trying to figure out what had disrupted his sleep.
Not a single sound could be heard, however.
Vigilant as usual, he got up from the bed and quietly went downstairs. He was barefoot, he had that old military habit of avoiding making unnecessary fuss.
Suddenly, he heard a strange sound, something like a muffled cry.
Was it Holmes' voice?
He carefully pushed the door; it opened without a creak; the sitting room was lit only by reddish light of the dying fire in the fireplace.
The detective's armchair was empty, only shreds of torn papers and piles of opened books were scattered around.
The doctor looked around but there was no sign of his friend in the room. He must have gone to sleep eventually, tired and exhausted, as he always was in such circumstances.
The whole flat was absolutely silent and peaceful.
"I must have misheard," thought Watson and he moved toward the door to go back upstairs.
Suddenly, he heard something again; it was a series of faint moans, which gave him the impression of somebody in pain.
He rushed to the half-opened door of Holmes' bedroom.
The doctor was about to grab a handle and enter the room hastily, when a sound of completely different nature struck his ears.
"Ugh, oh...oh, oh..." Watson froze at the door, astonished. He blinked, confused and shocked - he could not believe what he was hearing.
It was improbable.
It can't be.
Yet the noises were unambiguous. The breathing, ragged and loud, the squeaks of the mattress, quiet but audible.
"Is this Holmes ... masturbating?' he asked himself in an absolute amazement.
The sounds that followed those initial low murmurs seemed to confirm his conjecture. The best thing the good doctor could do in such an awkward situation was to leave, as quietly as possible.
To give him justice, he was turning around definitely intended to do so, when he heard his name whispered.
"John, oooh, John," the deep baritone of Holmes' voice made John Watson, the brave soldier, shiver.
Instead of going back to his bedroom, he cautiously glimpsed into his friend's room.
The place was nearly completely dark, the only source of faint light was the street lighting that was sipping through the curtains.
The doctor needed some time to adjust his sight to see in the darkness. Eventually, he managed to see an incredible scene in front him.
Sherlock Holmes was lying down on his huge, comfortable bed, head high on the pillow, all naked except his camel dressing gown, its flaps thrown carelessly aside, showing the man's pale, gloriously slim and muscular body with dark sparse hair on his chest and strong, sinewy legs spread wide.
What immediately caught John Watson's attention, however, were the detective's slender fingers tightly wrapped around his enormously erected member. Holmes was moving them up and down sluggishly, with his other hand capping and slightly tugging his hairy balls.
The detective's eyes were tightly closed; he was releasing filthy noises: grunts, moans, whimpers. He wholeheartedly indulged in it.
The sight was extraordinary and beyond belief .
John Watson gasped and literally stopped breathing for a moment.
The sounds became more intense and Holmes began to move his hand faster, adding a tricky twist at the end of each motion up. His glans was glittering from pre-ejaculate, his rigid cock was leaking and pulsing, clear signs he would not last much longer. His upthrusts became more rapid, he was lifting his hips with every movement, trying to get more of a friction.
He became pretty vocal too.
"Oh, John...right there, yes, right there," he whimpered. "Give me more, yes. Yes. Yes."
The doctor stood there taken aback, he could not believe his eyes. And ears.
What was going on here?
Watson's brain refused to process what he was seeing. Since he was not able to solve the puzzle, he stopped trying and simply let it go.
His heart was thumping, his throat was dry and and he felt dizzy. He realized he should have withdrawn; the sooner, the better but he could not resist.
The indecent view of Holmes pleasing himself in front of his eyes made his blood boiling, never in his life had he felt that aroused.
It was beyond his control. Watson's lustful glances kept sweeping over Holmes, splayed across the sheets, he literally could not take his eyes off his friend, who lied on his bed, unaware of his presence.
The doctor of course knew such behaviour was not appropriate; yet he could not help him doing so. The mere fact of such furtive peeking at Holmes who was touching himself made it extremely erotic and irresistible.
Pushed by a sudden impulse, he reached for his manliness, painfully reminding of his existence. The tension was unbearable. He needed some relief.
Watson's left hand wandered down his navel, right to his groin - one gentle touch, a delicate brush through the thin fabric of his pajamas pants was enough to set him on fire.
His body did not ask any questions, his own penis was screaming for attention, achingly swollen and stone hard. One swift movement and the doctor's erection was free, his pants down, lying wrapped around his ankles. Without delay he grabbed his throbbing dick and started stroking it furiously. His eyes were glued to Holmes and their moves got coordinated involuntarily.
At the same time Sherlock Holmes left his balls abandoned and raised his hand to his face. He put two of his long fingers into his mouth and licked them generously, then spread his legs wider and reached to his arsehole.
He slowly started pushing the fingers inside, lifting and tilting his hips slightly. He positioned himself better, feet flat on the mattress, knees aside and began moving his digits in and out.
The obscene noises of sheer excitement produced by Holmes vigorously riding his own fingers made Watson's position even more inconvenient. He could not hold back breathing loudly. Biting up on his lips strongly until he felt the taste of blood on them, he tried to compose himself and stop making noises. It seemed impossible, however.
The man knew his own fulfillment was coming, hot waves of pleasure began flooding his body, starting in his man parts, gradually embracing him entirely. He desperately tried to stay calm and soundless. His face was burning, his nipples were erect and hard under the shirt, his legs shaking. Shame, embarrassment, lust - they were all blended in one fiery sensual feeling, which made the poor doctor blazing with excitement. His strokes became firm and energetic, his fingers were sliding up and down rhythmically.
The only hope was that Holmes did not seem able to notice anything at all.
The detective's actions became more intense, both hands occupied, performing in unison; his usually pale lips were full, pink and parted, hair disheveled, the whole body tense and trembling with anticipation.
The man was panting heavily, his groans became louder.
All of a sudden,Holme stopped moving for a second, squeezed his dick firmly and was ejaculating, arching his back and bucking his hips erratically . He exhaled with a long moan; spurts of whitish semen gushing around; a few drops landed on his stomach, some other on his pricey dressing gown and the bedding.
"Oh, John, oh," he grunted, his eyes still closed; a lazy, satisfied smile appeared on his face."Oh, John. John," he repeated a few times more, gradually getting his breath back. He languidly was stroking his still erect penis, apparently sunk deep down in the erotic phantasies of his mind palace.
At the same time, John Watson at the door was passing through difficult moments, being on the verge of an inevitable orgasm, too close to withdraw.
He tried to muffle himself, placing his right palm onto his mouth.
Surprisingly, that touch was all he required. His breaths became violent and short, his nostrils rapidly filled with air and there he was. He came completely motionless, in silence, almost breathless. He held firmly his hot and pulsating member; sticky semen was dripping through his fingers, tightly wrapped around it.
The doctor, as immovable and silent as it was possible in such circumstances, rode the waves of his pleasure, until his cock twitched with its last spasm. That was the weirdest sexual experience in his whole life.
That was the weirdest sexual experience in his whole life.
Nonetheless, he acknowledged he had never felt such desire before.
Watson lifted his eyelids slowly and glanced into Holmes' bedroom.
The detective was still lying there, peaceful and visibly relaxed, eyes closed, the bed cover pulled over across his naked body.
The doctor thought his friend had just collapsed after the tiring session but then he heard an unbelieveable sound.
The detective was snoring!
He nearly laughed out loud.
Well, so this is what the guy needs. A bit of physical enjoyment.
The doctor leaned forward and grabbed his pants, then he dressed himself quickly. Fully clothed, he turned around and creeped back upstairs carefully.
Holmes' sleep was very shallow and Watson did not want his friend to learn about the incident.
Back in his room, Watson sat on his bed smiling broadly.
Albeit the whole thing was rather unusual and strange, he must have admitted, it was also very intense and peculiar.
What an extraordinary adventure!
Downstairs, Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and smirked.