My pipe went out long before Holmes' – I was too nervous to savour it, drawing hard and exhaling swiftly. Whatever calm I had acquired from my release was being swiftly eroded. I wanted him more than ever, yet I still had no idea where I stood with regard to his body. Could I touch him where and when I wanted? Did 'whatever you want' still stand?

Eventually, he finished his pipe, and he set it down on the nearest dining chair – just within reach of his long arm. He raised his arms above his head, stretched with cracking bones, and stood up, pulling the sheet away from me. He stood there, draped in white, his eyes drooping, and held out a hand.

'Come to bed with me, Watson.'

I took the proffered hand, using it to struggle to my feet, and he half-pushed me in the direction of his room. He kept the sheet for himself, I noticed, and took his pipe back to its rack and shut off the lamps before he joined me.

A few weeks earlier, I would have laughed scornfully if it had been suggested that I would soon be sharing a bed with Holmes, waiting for him to come and lie naked in my arms. I would not have believed it, because Sherlock Holmes, the dearest, most infuriating friend I have ever had, is not a man with whom one could possibly do that sort of thing. The knowledge that this ought to be the case, but wasn't, bothered me. On the other hand, my experiences so far with him – the ease with which I had brought him to arousal, to climax, suggested that there was a deep truth here.

'Holmes...' I hesitated. Now was almost certainly not the time for my question, but I wished to know; I hated the idea of a past that was a locked door – after all, Holmes knew far too much about my past, had probably gleaned a lot more from his observations of my behaviour in the bedroom.

'Yes, Watson,' he said, walking towards me holding a lamp, which he set on the bedside table.

'May I ask, or is it too private a thing...? What previous experience have you? You said you had kissed...' My legs swung as I sat on the edge of the bed. He stopped, but instead of sitting next to me, he folded himself down to the floor and took hold of my ankles, stopping them from moving. He kept his gaze fixed on my bare shins as he spoke.

'I have kissed, yes. A man with whom I shared tutorials at university, plied me with a great deal of wine in fulfilment of a bet, and took advantage of my incapacity. It went no further. I was aware of it and did not mind that... but anything further was out of the question. I had work to do. Then a woman, a few years later – I needed information, knowledge. She was keen to continue, but I didn't have the time or the inclination.' He sighed dramatically. 'Then, since I know you will not let the subject drop until you have extracted every last occurrence, I will admit that I was, for a while and quite without any real desire to be so, a member of a group who... explored each other thoroughly. I was not a very good member. I came to it through two men of my acquaintance who were improbably kind to me when I was in great need of rescue from the tedium of existence.'

I looked down at the top of his head, felt his grip tighten on my ankles, saw the tension in the muscles of his shoulders, and guessed aloud,

'The seven percent solution?'

'At that time, closer to twenty, and other things besides. But they persuaded me to watch their games by way of distraction. I rarely joined in, and only in the most guarded way. They would assuage their desires in whatever way suited them. I observed – the sexual act features in many crimes, and data regarding such acts between men are not easy to come by. I took mental notes and learnt how things might be done, the result of various endeavours. How did you think I knew what to do with you this evening?'

'How did you join in?' I could not help asking.

'They found me fascinating,' he said off-handedly, 'and from time to time would relax me with herbal medicaments or simply with time and gentle caresses, and then use their hands or mouths upon me. I suppose I allowed it because they did not expect anything in return and I was bored. But then, that situation was different. I did not love them.'

Then you do love me? I found myself thinking. Heavens, his experience was odd, but accounted for the strange confidence he had shown.

His thumbs rubbed my ankle bones, his fingers caressing the skin on the other side – an area which is particularly sensitive for me. I could feel my pulse rising, my mind trying to dive into the pleasure and leave the reality of my sated body behind.

'Holmes, stop!' I regretted my imperative tone at once – he shot back from me, hands raised.

'Watson? I...'

'No, no, Holmes. My apologies. I did not mean to sound so fierce. That is exquisite, but you're driving my mind where my body cannot hope to follow, not so soon. Not so soon, old man, surely you understand?'

It seemed he didn't, looking at me with some confusion. I supposed he had never been put in that position himself.

'Tomorrow. Gladly. More than gladly...' I watched him consider my compromise for a moment, then nod.

He rose, bringing the sheet with him, and I pushed back the blankets properly so that the sheet could be laid under them. Having attended to this little matter of housekeeping, I held the several layers aloft so that he could creep between, having every intention of laying myself in a position that suited me tonight. I was deadly tired, but happily so, and the prospect of resting my head against whatever portion of his anatomy he presented was welcome indeed.

He pulled on his nightshirt before he got in, but he did not lie down, and instead sat with his back against the angle between headboard and wall, fished around under the pillow, and brought out a ratty old shawl, which he draped around his shoulders.

'I wish to think,' he said lightly, and when I did not move, he beckoned me in. I could not help raising my eyebrows, but he rolled his eyes at me, indicated that I should use his legs as a bolster, his stomach as a pillow, so I did. I fell asleep listening to the intimate rumbles and gurgles of his digestion: a proof of life to make the lover's mind content. Sometimes, one gets that for which one has wished.

I was surprised, in the morning, to find him still beside me. He had slipped down during the night to lie flat, and had his back to me, but we still pressed against each other from head to toe. I heard the church bells ringing nine o'clock and stretched, thinking that although this was most pleasant, it would not do to be found in bed together, and Mrs Hudson would soon be knocking on the door. She and I have an understanding that Holmes eats so irregularly by nature, even outside the duration of a case, that it is our duty to ensure that he at least manages some breakfast most of the time. So she would soon be up to check on us – him particularly.

I stretched noisily, trying to wake him, and succeeded to a certain extent. He threw a vaguely waving arm back in my direction, under the sheets. It landed on my thigh with a hard slap. I winced.

'Time, Watson?' he asked groggily.

'Just gone nine,' I murmured, trying to keep my voice inoffensively soft. In truth, with the joy of last night just beginning to seep back into my awareness, I would happily have burst into song. However, I could imagine the reception that would get, and I did not like the thought. He rolled towards me, crushing my side, not unpleasantly, and conducted his own lacklustre stretch. His eyes were half closed, his hair all over the place. He tried to focus on me, but failed, and instead shuffled himself about until he was lying on his side, facing me, and tried to reach over me for something on the bedside table.

'What do you want?' I asked, as he narrowly avoided stabbing me in the eye.

'Cigarette,' he mumbled. I reached awkwardly with my right arm, lit the cigarette myself and passed it to him. As he smoked it, occasionally passing it to me for a draw, he began to wake, and as he puffed out his last mouthful of smoke and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, he pushed off me, yawned, and stretched more fully. He climbed over me, stepped into his slippers, pulled on his frightful grey dressing gown and padded off into the living room. I looked about for something to wear, not wishing to go wandering about the place in the nude. His spare nightshirt struck me as ideal, being very similar to my own, and unlikely to be recognised as his if Mrs Hudson were to come bustling in.

In the living room, the hatstand still lay wretchedly on the floor, like a slain beast – though Holmes would call that an altogether too fanciful description. He was sitting in his chair, or rather, lying with his lower back supported by the seat and his shoulders resting on the backrest. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped upon his belly, and if he were a more religious man I might have said he was indulging in a few morning prayers. As it was, I saw no need to leave him be, and prodded his ankles with a bare foot.

He opened one eye and regarded me with a neutral expression that turned slowly into a small smile he seemed anxious to hide. I smiled back to show, if it were required, that it was all right.

'Breakfast?' I asked. He nodded and closed his eyes again. I felt a twinge of the annoyance I associate almost entirely with Holmes – it is a comforting annoyance, rarely actually a true irritation. He muttered,

'Do stop rolling your eyes, Watson. I'm thinking.'

'You had half the night to think,' I rejoined, rather harshly. His eyebrow twitched and I sighed. There was, after all, a lot to think about.

I left him there and after a second's thought, went to my room to don my own clothes, before calling Mrs Hudson for a spot of something. While we waited for her to arrive, I fought the hatstand back into its proper alignment and rehung it with its scattered clothes. I found that draping the coats back around it now felt much more sensual than it had any right to. My coat was still stained with Holmes' semen, but for the time being, I simply covered it with his, and resolved to take a cloth to it later. The evidence was all but gone by the time our breakfast arrived.

Mrs Hudson bore a tray which warmed my heart – toast and butter, strawberry preserve, a pair of boiled eggs. She moved the items onto the table and went to leave. Holmes stopped her with a hand on the arm.

'Mrs Hudson!' he barked happily, 'Watson and I will be carrying out the most delicate and uncertain of experiments today. It would be far better if we were not disturbed, even by you. Please do not bother to serve luncheon.'

I sighed inwardly, desperately trying not to mentally berate Holmes for being so cavalier with my dining requirements.

'But what about the breakfast things, Mr Holmes?' asked our bewildered landlady.

'They will not suffer unduly for being on our table for a few hours. Good day, Mrs Hudson!' he ushered her out of the door, turning the key in the lock behind her. I could hear her frustrated tutting as she made her way back downstairs.

I hurried to the table, anxious to tuck in before Holmes got it into his head that I could do without my breakfast as well. He took his chair opposite me, and attacked his egg with such vigour that the top of it landed some way from his eggcup. He plucked it from the cloth and deposited it on his plate, then dug the remainder from its shell, eating the whole thing in barely more than two mouthfuls. I watched as he reached for a slice of toast, swept butter from the dish in a long gouge, wiping it across the bread in one swirling motion and positively hurled his strawberry preserve from the spoon. The whole thing was wolfed down in an instant, and he reached for his tea with equal rapidity.

I, meanwhile, had merely poured myself a cup of tea and removed the top of my egg. I noticed his repeated glances in my direction, and made a deduction of my own:

'Holmes, whatever plans you have for me that you are so eager to execute, I shall be happy to hear; but no matter how fast you consume your own breakfast, I am afraid that I intend to savour mine, and you will be obliged to wait. So why not enjoy your tea in full measure, my dear man, and let me eat my egg without this pervasive sense of urgency. I assure you, my attention and my appreciation of whatever it is you have in mind will be all the better for my stomach being satisfied.'

'And then we must wait the extra time while you digest, no doubt,' he muttered, but not irritably. He did slow down, sipping his tea and watching me over the rim of his cup.

Finishing my breakfast at the speed to which my stomach was accustomed now, of course, became impossible. I was aware of him watching, aware that my protests were entirely hollow, and that I desperately wanted to know what that incredible mind of his was planning. However, I forced myself to take my time, to establish at least a little independence at the beginning of whatever the day might bring.

As I took up my teacup and mirrored him, my mind began to turn uncontrollably on the question of what he was thinking of doing. It conjured me many possibilities, until it was all I could to to swallow. Would he take hold of me the moment I had finished, to kiss me, embrace me, undress me, learn my body a little better? Would he push me up against the wall, or throw me on the bed and enter me with all haste, or would he desire me to do that to him? Or would he take his time? Would this be a day for slow experimentation, for discovering how best to please each other? Or would it be something utterly unexpected?

I tipped the cup back and let the last few drops of cool, creamy liquid fall onto my tongue. Then placed it in its saucer and sat back in my chair, my hands clasped on my belly, waiting for him.

He rested his own, long empty cup back on the table, pressed on the tablecloth with his hands, and thus levered himself out of his chair and stood, stretching, before he moved to his armchair and beckoned me to follow him in silence.

I obeyed his gestures, taking my seat opposite him, and waited for him to speak, to act, to do anything at all. But he did not. I waited and watched him, his eyes were calm, and kinder than usual, though I have often seen them kind like that when I catch him looking at me unguardedly. He settled down further into his chair, his hands rising to nestle, clasped, against his chin. I let my eyes leave him for a moment, to glance around the room, wondering how long this silent contemplation would last, but a gentle tut brought my eyes snapping back to him, and with the slightest movement of his eyebrows, he indicated that I should keep my eyes on him.

I shifted my leg to make myself more comfortable, and let my normal concerns leave me. Today, of all days, there was as much time as we wanted. Mrs Hudson would keep us undisturbed; there was nowhere to be, nothing pressing to which I should attend; and if Holmes wanted to stare at me, I was not in such an aroused condition that I particularly minded, especially since I was happy to let my breakfast settle for a while.

I suppose it was a meditation. At least, I soon slipped into a state of quite extraordinary relaxation, my eyes fixed on his, and perhaps into a sort of trance, for I began to see something I considered beyond the normal. I say 'see', but it was more a sense of a different nature. As I gazed into his pupils, it seemed to me that I could hear the workings of his mind. Not the mechanical, rapid whirring that I knew must drive that incredible intellect; but the overbearing waves of his most reasoned thoughts. Perhaps I was simply reading the miniscule twitches of his facial muscles, which I know so well that when he chooses to make a full expression, I could divine his thoughts with ease. In this silent communion, I think I must simply have picked up on the smaller movements of his face, and not been aware of it. Nevertheless, it quite shook me at the time.

Watson, my dear Watson. There you are, he seemed to say, wordlessly. I wonder how long you will let me sit here in silence. Can you divine what I am saying? Oh, I see you can. Such a tiny nod from one who usually expresses himself so freely... Later today, I have things I wish to try with you. But for now, I want to know if I can give you pleasure without a single word, touch or gesture.

At least, that was the gist of it. I knew his meaning, though. I doubted his ability, but I watched him.

His breathing quickened slightly, his eyes becoming more hooded, his mouth falling a little open.

Watson, I am imagining you touching me. Do you know how few people have ever touched me? No-one has ever touched me as I wish you to touch me. You may begin at my head, at my neck. Remember how you pressed your lips against my spine last night? That was very pleasant. You can do that again. And your fingers on my ribs, that was also quite delightful...

Perhaps it was that he mirrored the movements he had made last night as I had touched him. Or perhaps I was just wishing that my actions had been so unforgettable, so desirable, that he would wish them repeated. However it was, his eyebrow raising itself told me that he had noted the increase in my own breathing rate. A tiny quirk of the lips showed that my nervous swallowing had not passed unnoticed, and was acceptable to him.

...But I should also like to feel your hands moving between my legs again. Such a sure touch, Doctor, makes one feel so safe. It is so easy to let oneself go when those hands are there to do the catching. And I will repay the favour. I know you trust me. You have always trusted me. And you trust me now to map out the progress of our day for you, though I know your physical desires encourage you to rush at the thing. Well, well, Watson... I wonder if I can push you too far? I wonder if you will let me...? Give me your hand.

He had not said it out loud, but some subconsciously noticed movement of his hand must have informed me of his intentions, for I had leant forward and my own hand was outstretched towards him before his had left his lap.

He closed his eyes and nodded. Our fingers met and almost crawled over each other in their hurry to be palm to palm. He wrapped his fingers about mine and I returned his grip as he opened his eyes and returned to watching me.

The pressure of his fingers was steady, almost unchanging, save for the involuntary tics to which we are all prey when asked to keep still. Yet as time passed, the sensation in my hand grew, an idea of his touch which spread through me, until my loins burnt with it, my feet tingled, and sweat beaded on my forehead as I struggled not to grab him and make this stop. I shifted in my seat, but that only make the pressure worse. Now his eyes were in constant motion, flicking back and forth between my face, my groin, and our joined hands, each time they met my own eyes, his mouth twitched in that little, satisfied smirk once more, making my stomach jump with anticipation and lust.

I longed to kiss him, to take that smile for my own. But I had made a vow, of sorts, to myself, and I would not break it. I would not...

Then he made a little noise. The sort of noise one might make if one were giving oneself pleasure and the door to the next occupied room were very thin. It was the gentlest of moans, and it signalled the re-closing of Holmes' eyes, accompanied with a little toss back of the head which made his neck seem to stretch into an expanse of flesh so tempting that it was all I could do to maintain my seat. His second moan, a little louder this time, broke me.

I stood suddenly, pulling my hand away and making him start in his chair; and I crossed to the window, taking my eyes from him fully. I leaned both my hands on the sill, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to banish the desire to rip off both our clothes and plunge myself into him with no preamble whatsoever. Instead I ground out, in a voice cracking with effort,

'Have pity on me, Holmes!'

'Ah!' He stayed where he was and I could hear his smile. 'Would you say your breakfast has gone down yet?' he asked. I shook myself.

'That was to let me digest?'

'Partially. Has it sufficed?'

'I suppose so.' I felt somewhat hard-done-by, although it had undoubtedly been a good idea. I heard him getting up, and sighed as his hand fell on my shoulder. My head tipped towards it unthinkingly and he turned me round and pressed his lips to mine, ignoring the fact that we were close to the window and probably visible from the street if anyone were looking straight in. I fumbled for the blind, but my mind was elsewhere, quite truly. He had already worked me so skilfully that my hands went to the buttons of his nightshirt without my bidding, undoing the front to his waist and slipping around his middle while my parted lips left his and roamed across his face, skimming his cheeks, sliding down the length of that remarkable nose, swinging around then to press inside the helix of his ear. Suddenly that became irresistible, and I felt the deep rumble in his chest vibrate through me as I gave up on all sense of propriety, stuck out my tongue and licked, then wrapped my lips around it – his ears have always fascinated me. The faint bitter tang of wax seemed sweet as honey, but I was propped up on my tip-toes, so could not linger there as long as I would have liked.

His hands were on my waist, and he pulled me closer, slipping his arms tighter and tighter around me, until I was in a perfect bear-hug, engulfed by Holmes, his hair in my nostrils, his arousal evident against my front. Then he stopped, frozen for a second, and seemed to be waiting for something.

'What?' I asked breathlessly.

'Lestrade,' he muttered with a sneer, pulling back slightly, so I could see his gaze directed out of the window.

'Mrs Hudson will stop...' I said, but I heard the pounding steps on the stairs at the same moment as he.

I rushed to help him rebutton his front, adrenaline making my vision blur and my fingers fumble. Then I backed away, trying to choose where best to sit – aware that if I remained standing, the front of my trousers would be perfectly indecent. Holmes had already taken his seat, a scowl on his face, his dressing gown tied as a fortification about his nether regions. A second later, Lestrade was banging on the door, Mrs Hudson's admonitory tones clearly audible as she tried to explain that we were otherwise engaged.

It occurred to me that Holmes had taken it for granted that Lestrade would gain entry, but that one of us, and it seemed to be falling to me, would have to get up to unlock the door that Holmes had so carefully secured.

I got up, painfully, wondering whether this was simply timely punishment for our sins, or whether it was just sheer bloody-mindedness on Lestrade's part. I unlocked the door, and managed to conceal my condition tolerably well as I returned to my seat.

'Come in, Lestrade,' Holmes said with a dangerous crackle in his voice. 'I am sure Mrs Hudson, admirable as she is, has informed you that your visit is most inconvenient and not at all welcome.'

'Oh, I did indeed, Mr Holmes,' replied our gracious landlady, 'but I'm afraid the inspector would not listen...'

'There're children involved, Mr Holmes. I wouldn't ask, not when you're busy, but I fear for their lives.' He took a slightly deeper breath and his nose twitched. He threw a searching glance in my direction, and I looked away, trying to smell the room past the dulling cover of familiarity. Perhaps the scent of two extremely aroused males was enough to be noted over the general air of toast and pipe tobacco, maybe not, but I could have buried my face in my hands as Holmes rose to his feet and made his way towards the inspector, his dressing gown front arcing out, leaving no doubt what was going on beneath.

If Lestrade saw, he was the soul of discretion. His eyes fixed on Holmes' face, he licked his lips a little nervously and took a deep breath.

'They were taken from the family home. We have the descriptions, we think we know who took them, and we know why, it's the 'where' that's flummoxing us.' He handed some papers over to Holmes, who read rapidly, then sighed.

'They are on the ten-fifteen to Nottingham, and if you wire ahead, you can have a police escort ready for them when they alight. But they should look for a man, not the woman this suggests at first sight, and one of the children will be re-dressed to resemble the opposite sex. I'm afraid from this I cannot possibly tell you in which direction. Now, is there anything else you need to know, Lestrade? We are most abominably busy today.'

'I see,' Lestrade seemed a little shocked, possibly by the ease with which Holmes had given him the solution, possibly by the fact that Holmes chose to give his pelvis a gentle thrust as if to indicate the exact nature of our employment this morning.

'No, gentlemen... uh, thank-you, Mr Holmes. Your input is most invaluable. I'll leave you to it... I'll show myself out. A good morning to you.' He stopped, looked at me, glanced back at Holmes, took another breath as if thinking to say something; then a little shake of the head and he was leaving. He stopped at the door without turning back.

'Do not omit to lock it behind me.'

As he left, Holmes turned to me, though his thoughts were clearly still with Lestrade.

'A more remarkable man that I often give him credit for being.'

'He already knew,' I pointed out, certain now that Lestrade and Holmes had indeed shared that information at the start of the whole business with Milverton.

'I run him down too often. He is a sharp tool in the police inventory.'

'Well, really, Holmes, he could hardly fail to notice today – your condition is all too evident, and we have both been...'

'You, my friend have turned the most charming shade of pink,' he cut me off.

'And why did you open the blinds if this is what you planned?' I retaliated, moving to lock the door and pull the blinds back down, since I had failed in that endeavour the first time.

'Because if I had not, Mrs Hudson would have performed that office all the same, and the less time she spent hovering around in here, the better.'

'Do you think she noticed?' I asked in horror, suddenly realising that she had been in the doorway of the room, and as a once-married woman, would not be unable to put two and two together.

'It is entirely probable, but given the number of things for which she reprimands me on a monthly basis, I imagine this would fall rather low on her list of concerns.' He reached out to touch a long finger to my moustache, smoothing an errant hair. I shivered, but the idea of Mrs Hudson ranking her gripes with us in order of importance was delightful, and I grinned. He took hold of my shoulders, held me at arms length, let his gaze drift slowly down my body until he smiled wickedly to himself and his fingers gripped more tightly, kneading firmly at the tense muscles in my upper arms,

'Tut, tut, Watson; can I really play you so easily?'

He looked so abominably pleased with himself, so self-assured in my presence, that it seemed to add another inch or to to his height – a difference I could well do without, so my first thought was to persuade him to sit, that I might feel more equal with him.

'Yes, you can, which you know very well. But may we sit, my dear fellow? My leg...'

'Tish! Your leg indeed! A pale excuse my friend, you are merely vexed at having to gaze upwards at me all the time, you would prefer me to sit with you so that my height does not disadvantage you when you are attempting to appear the very pinnacle of male desirability.'

I blushed, much to my annoyance, and he went on, in that low, rapid-fire speech with which he expresses himself when what he says is very obvious to him, but requires to be said for form's sake. 'And there really is no need. Watson, you are the only diversion of this nature in my collection and I assure you, you are in-fin-itely–' he drew out the word in stark contrast to those around it, '–desirable to me, at your usual height, to which you will recall, I am well-accustomed.'

'Nevertheless,' I said, clinging tightly to my first excuse. He rolled his eyes at me and sat, dragging me down after him. I fell against him, and he turned, pinning me to the sofa, and wrapping himself about me, pressing his lips to mine and allowing me the not altogether unpleasant sensation of being totally overwhelmed by him.

His dressing gown fell around us, and under its cover, I used my knees to push the skirts of his nightshirt up towards his waist. Once the hem was within reach, I tugged it up further, slid my fingers around his waist under it, and pressed one hand into the warmth between his legs. He grunted in surprise and breathed deeply, incidentally drawing a ticklish gust of air past the sensitive skin on my neck, making me grip more tightly. He pushed back, his breathing so rapid now that I could see the frantic rush of it in his eyes as he stared down, wiping his brow with the hand that was not supporting him. He blinked slowly – it looked like a last ditch attempt to regain control, but if it was, it failed.

I pressed one finger against his perineum, watching the astonishing effect it had on him. It was like watching him drugged again, but without the medical fear coursing through me. Freeing my other hand, I pulled loose my tie and started work on the buttons of my jacket and waistcoat, while he set his attentions upon my shirt.

'Why must we wear so many blasted clothes?' he asked, fingers spidering at my cufflinks.

'I thought it was your intention to discover exactly,' I paused to take a much-needed breath as his thumb ruffled across the veins on the inside of my wrist, '...exactly how far you could take me without removing any of my clothes at all?'

'It was,' he muttered distractedly, 'I have changed my mind.'

I almost laughed. Perhaps it would have been fairer to say that his mind had changed its location, for I was certain that the usual flow of blood to his mighty brain had been sorely reduced. However, his lips upon my chest cut off my laughter, the sensation too intense to admit of any other emotion. He balanced himself enough to pull me towards him, off the sofa, while he dragged all my upper garments from me in one motion, catching me a slight fabric burn on my wrist as he did so, which I barely noticed, and certainly did not begrudge him.

Then he stopped, and looked me in the eye, although it was a brief moment that he held my gaze – his eyes were too busy, too full of life to merely rest on mine for any length of time. He seemed to be searching the air for solutions to some great problem, so I decided to take matters into my own hands for a minute.

Reaching out for him with my free hand, I stroked across his lips. He sighed and allowed me to run them deeper, rattling my nails against his teeth, before boldly pushing in a little way beyond. His eyes narrowed, then he gave one of those little facial shrugs of his that mean he is allowing you your way for now, however incomprehensible. His tongue stroked my fingers and it was hot and soft and strong – so delightful that I almost stayed there, playing with that sensation, but my plans were more direct.

I stole back my wet fingers, just as he seemed to be getting to enjoy it, and reaching down, pressed past the sphincter from which I had so carefully held back the night before.

His gasp was vocalised this time – a loud 'gah!' of surprise as he tightened painfully around my finger. I held still and silently asked him whether this was acceptable. He gave me a smug grin and informed me that if I were to stop now, he would be obliged to send for a policeman. That was threat enough – despite the length of time for which I have known Holmes, the potential in him for surprising me would still admit of him actually carrying out his threat, especially since I now knew for a fact that we had what might almost be taken as a 'tame' policeman in the form of Lestrade. Besides, I really had no intention of stopping unless he seemed seriously to object, so I waited for him to relax a little, then continued to press in.

Holmes was now in a state of great agitation. I was almost certain that he had never done this before; his account of his previous experience did not seem to allow for it. However, he was not in a patient mood, and pushed himself onto my fingers, a frown on his face, and my name repeatedly upon his lips – a detail I had not looked for, but found strangely thrilling.

After a while, he shook himself and crawled off me.

'Sit up, Watson,' he said between rough breaths. I did so, and he stood shakily, grabbed hold of my unbuttoned trousers and I helped to wriggle out of them, before he grabbed my knees and pulled me to the edge of the sofa, so that I reclined against the back in an extraordinarily uncomfortable position. I let him do it, however, I could not bring myself to stop him, not even when he reached for the butter dish from the breakfast table, and used a great scraping of it in a manner of which I felt sure Mrs Hudson would not approve. He sat down upon me and I felt myself sliding into him. The idea of it was intoxicating and utterly removed all sensation of discomfort from my mind. He moved on me and his head fell back, giving him an air of wantonness I usually associate with his periods of boredom. My back started to protest, despite the liberal painkiller my own brain seemed to be doling out, and I grabbed his waist, holding myself firmly inside him, and using all the strength I had, sat up, twisted us round and let him slip to the floor, his head landing on a cushion which had already fallen there.

I saw the spark in his eye that rebelled against me taking charge and I tutted at him.

'Holmes, if you want to be in charge, recall your knowledge of anatomy, and do not leave me in such an untenable position...'

He growled at me, but his eyes were gentle, and he seemed resigned to this position, or rather, seemed to enjoy it more, unsurprisingly, since I now had the opportunity to change my angle and make it better for him. Apart from that, I could now move without hindrance, and I pummelled into him, not bothering to be too gentle, for I knew he would not appreciate it. As I thrust hard, he reached a hand up to clutch my scapular, and stuttered out,

'Watson, m-my dear man...You clearly...clearly know me f...far too well...' His fingernails dug in sharply where he clutched, and I noticed his other hand had reached out and wrapped around the leg of the sofa and now gripped with white knuckles.

I did not care. My speed increased, I was barely aware of anything now, but him, his body, the point at which our bodies met, the warmth, and the sight of his lips moving in what for a moment I assumed was his litany of 'Watsons', but turned out to be him keeping count of the number of thrusts I took to reach climax.

I got to my knees, grabbed his leg, dragged it up under my arm, stretched him wider, thrust more deeply, knowing that I shouldn't, that I should take care, that he was new to this, that I would cause damage... But also that he would not forgive me if I was gentle, that this was Holmes at his rawest, this was me at my most animal, that in spirit I was once again the soldier, and he was the daredevil who defied all of humanity and refused to conform when he chose not to. Just now, we both chose not to conform, and I did not care that he yelled as I drove into him and felt him contract sharply around me, nor that he continued to bellow as I ignored his hand slapping my thigh and continued my movements until the tight caress brought me to completion and I juddered against him, gripping his legs painfully hard.

When I let go and slipped out of him, he sighed and then grimaced, his face screwing up in pain.

'I've hurt you old man, I'm sorry,' I tried, but he waved a dismissive hand at me,

'Don't be ridiculous, Watson. That was magnificent. I just require a moment to learn to ignore the slight discomfort.'

I took him at his word, and chose to distract him.

'How many?'

'Hmm?' He looked confused for a second, then understood, 'Oh, I'm afraid I lost count rather towards the end. Over a hundred. I think. I could be wrong.'

If it was over a hundred, I was impressed with my own stamina – I would not have said I could last out so long with Holmes as my partner.

'You'll have to try not to lose count next time.'

He smirked, 'Watson, if you intend to impale me with such enthusiasm every time we embark upon something like this, there is little chance of me being able to hold myself together enough to do anything of the kind.' He pulled me back to him and kissed my forehead. 'A little soothing balm from your medical kit would not go amiss once you are fully recovered,' he said. A pang of remorse hit me and I went to get up to fetch a jar, but he grasped my forearm: 'When you are recovered, I said. You may as well let your heart-rate settle before you make it do anything else.'

However, at that moment, there was a ferocious knocking upon the door, which eliminated all hopes of my heart-rate returning to normal with any rapidity. Lestrade's voice lanced through the wood of the door and had us both on our feet in a matter of seconds.

'Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes! My apologies, but you must let me in!'

As Holmes stood, his nightshirt fell from his waist to cover him decently, but my clothes had been scattered about the place. Looking back, I should simply have run to Holmes' bedroom and shut the door, but the act of love is known to addle the brain, temporarily... At least, that is my excuse for the fact that instead of doing the sensible thing, I ran around to gather up my clothing in a frenzy, before throwing myself into the shadow of the one piece of furniture that would fully hide me from the area near the door: the hatstand.