Holmes pulled open the door, his face like thunder.

'What species of incompetence am I to rectify this time, Inspector? This is quite damnably inconvenient.'

'Damnit Mr Holmes! We need your brain! Your recreational activities must wait.'

Holmes whirled away from him, towards his bedroom, and I prayed that Lestrade would not follow him enough to catch sight of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Holmes throwing clothing about the room, searching for a clean collar. His door slammed shut as he started to change, and Lestrade, hands in his pockets, began to wander around the room, looking at books and ornaments in the way people do when they are left on their own in someone else's abode.

In a minute or two, Holmes opened his door, emerging fully dressed and with his dressing gown over his arm. To my horror, he tossed it to me, where I crouched, and said,

'Go and put on some clothes, Watson. I shall need your assistance.

As I struggled into the gown and stepped into the open, so red-faced that I imagined my eyebrows were in imminent danger of catching fire, Holmes gave me a quick nod, then turned his attention to Lestrade.

'Details, Lestrade!' he snapped. I did not hear the response, since I had already escaped up the stairs to my room. I dressed myself with the rapidity only a summons from Holmes can get out of me these days, and ran back down the stairs, theorising as I went that whatever eyebrow-raising I should have to face from Lestrade, it was as well to get it over with quickly.

However, Lestrade was in no position to give me more than a brief glance as I re-entered the room; Holmes was berating him from a few yards away, his hands thrown up in despair,

'If the police are so incompetent as to lose the villains I have handed to them on a platter, I see no reason why I should dig them out of their little pit a second time.'

'Mr Holmes, I will happily admit your pre-eminence, but for pity's sake, the second child...'

'Yes... Very well.' Holmes took his coat from the hatstand, uncovering the damning evidence. I shuffled in front of it, reaching around to take up my other overcoat – less suited to the weather, but also less unfortunately stained. I drew it on and passed Holmes his hat. He gestured Lestrade out of the door and followed him quickly, calling, 'Come, Watson!'

I followed, deciding that Mrs Hudson would have to take her chances with the condition of our rooms, and no more than four hours later, found myself at the other end of an adventure I shall attempt to write up when I have more time to devote to it.

The pity of it was that Holmes thought his involvement unnecessary, by reason of the solution being clear to him from the moment we reached the station, whereas, from my viewpoint, it was clear that the clues were insufficient for even the agile mind of Inspector Lestrade. I felt pride in my friend's remarkable abilities swell, even as my frustration with his lack of comprehension at the police failure peaked.

The case, as it happened, turned largely on the presence of a lady I supposed to be well into her middle age, although her smooth skin and youthful carriage would have let her pass for younger with little effort. Holmes declared her innocent of all misdoing in relation to the case, but her evidence and subsequently revealed care for the recovered child – sent off with a nurse to have various small injuries seen to – gave her an importance, which we chose to repay – that is, I suggested it, and Holmes did not refuse – by inviting her to take tea with us in the station hotel while we awaited our train.

I took my seat next to Mrs Deynforth, and once we had been served and a respectable time had passed, drew her into easy conversation, while Holmes sat across from us, and set his focus elsewhere. His inattention was almost rude, but I decided he had enough on his mind to excuse him. I dared to ask our companion a little about her circumstances, having caught a little complexity from some of her remarks. She smiled indulgently, and obliged me with a little information.

'I was widowed six years ago, Doctor. Now I give music lessons to support myself.'

Now, I admire a woman who does not fall back on her relatives the moment disaster strikes.

'Really? Which instrument?' I asked. I heard an almost inaudible grunt from Holmes' direction, but ignored it.

'Piano, flute, voice and violin,' she replied.

'A good variety,' I noted.

'My father was musical.'

'Holmes here plays the violin,' I said, directing my gaze at him to try and draw him into the conversation. He glanced up, but said nothing. His expression was utterly unreadable.

'And I'm sure he plays it beautifully – those hands, that grace of movement.' She looked down suddenly, possibly aware that she had been a little too effusive for a near stranger. However, I felt a sense of warmth spreading through me. Praise of Holmes was a sure way to gain my approval.

'Quite beautifully,' I agreed, and heard that little grunt again, though this time a little more contented. Suddenly he stood, gazing out of the window, and listening intently. He whirled around, seizing his hat and passing me mine.

'Our train, Watson! You will excuse us, I am sure, madam.' He started out of the door, without waiting to discover whether or not she would indeed excuse us. I handed her my card,

'If you are ever in London and in need of assistance, or simply a friendly face, please, do not hesitate to call on us,' I said, taking her proffered hand and giving her an apologetic bow before I hurried after Holmes.

He was waiting for me, one foot on the step of the carriage, hanging from the door by one hand. He allowed me to pass him, resting his hand upon my shoulder and pressing me forwards.

Once we were settled, knee to knee across a compartment, he glanced up at me, and remarked,

'Had your head turned, Watson?'

I looked at him sharply. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'An attractive woman.'

'I suppose so.' I was annoyed by his observation. I had not thought about it. I had found her interesting, charming perhaps. Her admiration for Holmes was bound to endear her to me, but that was completely different to the level of interest Holmes was suggesting. She was handsome, not truly beautiful, but certainly pleasant to look at, and well-groomed – just the right amount of concern about her appearance: wishing to look attractive, but not aggressively so. This was all beside the point however. I could not contemplate putting her in direct comparison with Holmes. He was mine, and that was all I required.

'Hmm,' he said, sounding disbelieving.

'You're imagining things, old man,' I said, wondering as I said it, to what extent Holmes was capable of feeling jealousy. During my previous marriage, he had turned up at my door to take me away, and even back then, there had been something proprietorial about it – something of the droit de seigneur in the way he assumed I would come with him, and in the dismissive way he had treated my wife.

'Am I?' He sounded bored, apathetic. It riled me.

'Yes,' I snapped. Then I softened, and leaned back. I had no desire to quarrel with him over a silly fantasy of his.

I let him be, all the way home. He was still brooding as we entered Baker Street, and once we had made it upstairs, he threw himself into his chair in a manner I might have called 'morose'. I walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder.

'You're not disappointed about the case, are you?'

'Disappointed? No. Irritated.' He rolled the 'r' and popped the 't's snappishly. 'Irritated to the highest degree. If the police had the slightest idea of the trouble they cause... If they had simply called on me earlier, this whole journey would have been rendered unnecessary...'

I squeezed his shoulder consolingly. 'Well, they did try, you know. You were otherwise engaged.'

'No, no, no. Before that. This case appears to have been beyond them from the start.'

'Well I'm damned glad they didn't. We might never have had time to do what we did then.'

'Mm.' His response was too curt, too studiedly disinterested. I divined the possible cause, unlikely as I might previously have thought it.

'You don't seriously think I'm about to leave you for that woman, do you?'

'Of course not,' he said, but I knew him too well to entirely believe him.

'You're jealous!' I said, and I'm afraid I may have sounded a little too gleeful at the idea that he was capable of being so concerned about my faithfulness.

'What utter nonsense.' He still did not look at me, and I felt I was walking a fine line, so I did not force myself into his line of vision, but sat down at my desk and took up my pen to commence the recording of the day's publishable events.

There was silence for a few seconds while I deliberated over a title and dipped my pen. As I began to write, he spoke.

'Must you do that now?'

'Not if it irritates you. Would you rather I left you alone for a while?'

'No.' He sighed and steepled his fingers in front of his lips. 'No. Talk to me, Watson, I want to hear your voice.'

'What shall I talk about?'

'Oh, whatever you like. It is the tone of your voice I wish to hear. Come, sit where I can see you.' I felt a little ashamed of my earlier gloating, so I acquiesced to his request and sank into my chair, whence I poured forth a stream of inane prattle for the next ten or fifteen minutes. All the time, Holmes sat there with his eyes closed. After a while, his hand began to move, vague little motions near to his chin, becoming more and more pronounced, until I realised that he was conducting some unheard tune. I stopped speaking and at once his eyes flicked open. His eyes fixed on me and I felt that I had interrupted him in the middle of some great symphony.

'What were you conducting, Holmes?'

'Your voice, my dear man. It is quite melodic when you are rabbiting away... and most soothing.'

It was rather difficult to give any sort of reply to that statement, so I just nodded helplessly. He took pity on me.

'You were quite correct, in fact, Doctor,' he said, his eyes flashing. 'I was jealous. It is an emotion I have come to expect when you and I are out in company. You are becoming far too perceptive.'

I nodded my thanks to him, then shrugged.

'As I said, it was unnecessary.' He blinked slowly and waved dismissively at me.

'No, it was not, but since you are, as yet, unaware of the true nature of that...diversion, I shall also endeavour to ignore it for the time being.'

I knew he was talking rot, so I ignored it in turn and stretched out a foot to touch his.

'Good,' I said. His head tilted down, he looked up at me through his lashes and I swallowed. How Holmes could make one look send me spiralling into lust was a mystery, but one I was content to spend many hours researching.

'What are your views on a reversal of our roles from this morning?' he asked casually. I felt my heart begin to race,

'You mean...?'

'I feel that at present I have insufficient information to properly categorise my opinions on which is the better, or the more pleasurable or...'

'Of course,' I said hoarsely. 'Insufficient information...I don't suppose you actually mean to fill that need immediately do you?'

He slid down in his chair so that his foot could writhe around mine more easily.

'If you are amenable. Otherwise I shall lie awake all night considering the issue.'

'Lock the door then,' I said. He looked up then, an expression I could not quite read flitting across his face. I thought it might be relief. Then he sprang to his feet and sped to the door, turning the key in the lock, then racing to the windows to pull the curtains over the blinds. I sat, stunned in my chair. I had always known that Sherlock Holmes did not do things by halves: either he was working so hard that the basic necessities of living could not be given time in the day, or he was sunk so low in boredom that the very idea of work seemed a disgusting imposition on his lethargy. So now, I was experiencing him in the full flight of his enthusiasm, and if I was truly honest with myself, the idea of that enthusiasm driving him to bed me several times in a day was one with which I could easily be reconciled.

My blood already pumped faster, simply from the notion of it. To be taken by Holmes, to feel the heat of his fullness inside me while his arms encircled me and his breath flew across my skin: that was paradise indeed.

I rose to meet him, and he closed his eyes, tipped his head back in a gesture of supplication, then opened them again, and brought the full force of their passionate gaze to bear on me. I felt my mouth drop open, the better to breathe, and he held out a hand to me.

'My room?' he asked. I nodded, the faculty of speech not being one I was prepared to test at this juncture, and he turned and pulled me after him.

In his room, the door closed behind us, he let go of my hand and sat on the floor, gesturing for me to join him. I did so with a little difficulty, owing to the residual stiffness in my leg. I leant my back against the bed, and he reached across to begin disrobing me.

'Watson, you are most forgiving. What did I do to deserve you?' He said it under his breath, and I was not entirely sure that I was supposed to be able to discern his words, so I did not make any answer, but reached out to undress him.

'No no, let me,' he said, and I let my hands drop.

He undid all my buttons, leaving the garments draped, unfastened, about me, then set about his own clothes. He dealt with them agonisingly slowly, watching me closely out of the corner of his eye, no doubt aware that every second that passed left me more and more helpless. His upper garments he threw into a corner from when he sat, but he stood to remove his trousers and stockings, returning to me quite naked, and perfectly ready for whatever activity he had planned. From where I sat, I could see the drops of moisture accumulating at the tip of his erect member, and I closed my eyes to stop myself falling on him to devour it. That, I tried to remind myself, would be undignified, though I was not fully convinced of it myself.

He ran warm hands over my chest, not focusing on my nipples, but making sure to chafe them at every pass. I arched against his hands, quite unable to stop myself, and as I did so, my sleeves fell from my shoulders and were easily shrugged from my wrists.

He got to his knees, loomed over me, and pressed his lips to mine. He would not let me chase his kiss, but moved away at once, biting lightly at my chin, ruffling my moustache with his nose, touching his tongue to my temple, kissing my neck where it crested my jaw, pinching my clavicles with his teeth, sliding his cheek down over my pectorals and blowing cooling breaths across my belly.

His arm slid around my waist, lifting me as he dragged at my trousers and long johns. they caught at my knees, but that did not seem to matter, for he left them there, swiftly returning to kneel astride me.

He took my hand in his, pressed a kiss to the palm and then settled it around his hardness. He hardly required the extra stimulation, but as I pulled at him, he returned his mouth to mine, so that I ceased to care about what was necessary, and set my mind instead on what would give him pleasure.

He pulled away at last, unwrapping my reluctant fingers and putting his hands on either side of my waist. I was desperate for him to drop his head, to lick a cool swathe of moisture across my own throbbing member, but he was not to be distracted, and he pecked me quickly on the lips to gain my attention.

'Won't you kneel in front of the chair?' he asked. I nodded, got shakily to my knees, and crawled across to the armchair, resting my forehead on its cool, leathern seat, and rising to present my posterior to him.

I heard him chuckle, that rare sound, and could not find it in myself to resent it. His lips fell upon my back, hot and frantic in their movements, as his hands swirled around my hips, brushed across my front and stroked one long finger swiftly down between my buttocks, making me groan with anticipation. Then he was gone, and when he returned, it was to slick some sort of oil down that same line, once, twice, then, on the third time, to sink a single digit into me, so that my body reacted instinctively, pushing me back against him and making him tut,

'Watson! Patience, man.' He paused, then, letting that finger embedded in me move gently, he asked,

'Do you think you can take me, thus? I am loathe to wait.'

I nodded, 'Yes, yes, now. I will cope.'

I was lying, I knew I was. To imagine I could relax myself so far when I had not been taken for many years was foolish in the extreme, but I wanted him too much, and as I have stated before, the act of love makes us fools. Even medical men.

He placed his hand in in the centre of my back, and with his other hand, guided himself into me. I felt him push, willed myself to relax, felt the practised ability come into force as my sphincter bent its will to my conscious mind, rather than its own instinct. I let him in, and he entered slowly, smoothly, both his hands running up my back as he leant forward to push.

As he seated himself fully in me, the air was forced from my lungs in a tortured gasp. The pain was greater than I remembered, unsurprisingly, since I had always taken time to prepare at least a little in the past, and that a long time ago when I was younger and probably more adaptable. He did not ask me whether I was alright, but paused there as I went rigid, and ran light fingers through my hair until I untensed a little and he could move once more.

I drew my elbows up onto the chair, gripped my forehead with my hands, and waited for him to move. When he did, I gasped again, but his next stroke hit the centre of pleasure, firing off a wave to consume the pain. His mouth landed on the back of my neck, and I felt his lips move against my nape as his pelvis rocked against me, drawing the same gasp of pain from me each time, and the same moan of delight as pain succumbed to pleasure.

Then his teeth fastened upon the back of my neck, and I clenched my fingers round the cushion as my brain struggled to cope with the sensory load. Over and over he plunged into me, and I rode the pain, wanting it to continue, because it was the hard edge of Holmes that I loved so much doing this to me, and it was the feeling of him filling me that I had craved for so long.

I felt orgasm swelling in me, the bodily orgasm that only comes from internal stimulation. I let it break over me as he slapped against me, and felt his smile on my neck as I tipped my head away from him, letting it fall to one side, my eyes tightly shut. He knelt up, threw his arms around me and dragged me up to lean against his chest as he continued to push into me, lifting me up and down on him as I spasmed around him, until he climaxed, and I felt the flood deep inside me, and he groaned into my ear and held me so tightly that breathing was an effort.

I heard him swallow, heard the click of his lips as he opened them to take in more air, heard him shut them, an uncertain sound, as if he wanted to speak, but could not find the words. I leant against the chair and waited.

After a while, he took another preparatory breath, then gently pulled out of me and urged me round to face him. I leant towards him, and he kissed me. I sucked at his lips, dragged his tongue into my mouth, bit it gently, let it roam across my teeth, tickling my soft palate, then chased it back into his mouth, tasted him fully, tangled my tongue with his and followed his head down to the floor, lying myself upon him as our tongues continued to do battle, and our rapid breaths sped down our nostrils and spent themselves through the corners of our mouths, where parted lips allowed it.

My arms had gone around him, and I pulled him close, finally parting our lips and resting our cheeks alongside each other. His arms tightened around my chest, and we stayed there for a long time.

'I love you. Holmes? I love you, you know?' I spouted this foolish litany at him. He said nothing in return, but his fingers pressed more deeply into the flesh of my back, and his mouth, where it rested on my neck, pursed in a kiss and touched my skin like fire.

Tighter and tighter we gripped each other, until the pain from my protesting ribs far outmatched the ache in my bruised sphincter. I could not let him go, and nor, it seemed, could he release me. The floor was cold and hard, but we stayed there an inordinate amount of time, perhaps as much as twenty minutes. Eventually I thought he had gone to sleep, and I brought up one hand to run it through his hair. A shiver went through him and he whispered,

'Oh Watson, I have you for so short a time.'

'What?' I muttered back, not understanding him in the least.

'Never mind. Ah well, at least we shall have matching posteriors.'

That was true, mine was throbbing like the very devil, and would be better off in a soft bed than on this floor. I told him as much.

'Naturally,' he replied.

Without letting go of me for an instant, he got us into his bed, rolling under the sheets, still tightly held, each by the other.

He fell asleep at once, and I had expected to do the same, but his various hints at a rapid change in our circumstances had got under my skin, and I lay awake, listening to his snuffling breaths, as I ran over in my head what he had said.

He was proud of me. I knew that. It oozed out of every unguarded look he gave me. And he trusted me. But it was a trust that depended less on my own actions than I would like to think. It seemed that he expected me to leave him, that he was resigned to it. And that he thought the lady we had met today a likely candidate. Well, such an eventuality had not crossed my mind with her. Yes, I knew marriage was not out of the question for ever, but not soon, not as long as I could hold it off.

I tightened my grip around my friend, and he frowned in his sleep. I determined to prove him wrong. Here and now it was not difficult to do so. Never mind the awkwardness of our position with regard to society. Once you get just so far, it is almost impossible to stop, and I did not intend to stop loving Holmes. Nor did I think that he would easily do without me. My mind still whirled, carrying me back to that first moment when he had proved himself to be such an unexpected improvement on the hatstand. The memory of that sudden knowledge of rightness filled me to overflowing, proving him completely, and irrefutably wrong.

I said his name once, softly, and must have awoken him. His hand fought its way out from under the sheets, coming to rest with his fingers on my lips. His mouth was drowsily heavy, but I think his muttered sound was 'Hush.' I took it for an admission of his error, and kissed his fingertips. He was mine, and that was sufficient for any man.

I slept.