Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, was as strange as his first name, truly, a singularity, what kind of biologic improbabilities in the field of genetics had had to coincide in a once in a lifetime feat so that one Sherlock Holmes had to be born? And furthermore, what kind of other more earthly far chances had to coincide during his forty years of life in order to have certain characteristics of phenomenon jut until they were poking the mob creating tingles into crude mocking harassment?

Holmes sat straight, one leg crossed, arms on arms, on his chair smoking; and Watson looked at him as if he was the vanishing point of the room, standing at the door.

- What are you doing Holmes?

- I'm thinking.

That didn't need any explanation, because whichever, however detailed it was, would land on Watson's mind in the same way as his current assumption; thinking in Holmes' terms was like a nightmare, geometrical forms only irregular and of many sides, arguments that didn't even seem a coherent sentence, flashes of the dead, unthinkable motives, concepts that didn't exist in anyone's language, more flashes of crime, details that could have felt like a drone… Watson wouldn't have understood, staying with his same nightmarish imagination of Holmes's chaotic thoughts.

One day, only one very idle day of spleen, he had asked: - Holmes, you exercise logic…

- Indeed.

- But somehow I think you don't follow an order when you think, the rigid order of logic.

- Of course not that would be a mistake that would render me a fool to the level of the rest of people. I have heard, and I believe it, that for geniuses thinking of a solution is an instinctual action, geniuses are those who spare less effort in thinking, and I believe them. Watson, if I wasn't this curious you would know me to be even more ignorant than you do already, because I would think much less than I already do.

- … - Watson saw the chance in retaking a much controversial internal subject between them – You really don't care about earth…

- Not in the least bit. I'm not curious about our universe, is not yet our time to know about it, we have no means… let it go Watson, let it go…

- But, isn't it implied, for example, that we aren't as important to God as we believed?..

- Not in the least bit Watson, you're mixing two very different kinds of thought for which very different kinds of facts must be taken into account, you are confusing yourself. I don't care neither if in the end it really turns out we're yet monkeys instead of evolved monkeys. I have looked at myself in the mirror many times and saw clearly the face of a monkey… I have nothing against them, both them and us make the funniest of things.

Watson looked at him with an amused frown, and after a few seconds exploded in laughter.

- Oh, really? You saw the face of a monkey?

- I may have been a longtime sleepless or in cocaine haze, but amazingly I'm not lying.

Watson laughed even more as Holmes accompanied him, in silence.

- Well I must comfort you Holmes, you don't look like a monkey at all.

- Observe closer. - Watson laughed more. – Now imagine hair there where there isn't. – And more…

Now he didn't interrupt him, Holmes was smoking, and thinking, and he had become the center of the universe.

Fifteen minutes later Holmes was playing his violin in frenzy, the winter from Vivaldi's four seasons, perhaps faster than it was canon to perform it, fast short notes, all of them louder, as if they would stop for Mrs. Hudson's squeal to fill in; but as loud as the violin was, congesting the house and arriving not yet that faint to the neighbors, the property of the afternoon hour and the beauty of it wouldn't have Mrs. Hudson squealing.

Watson was enchanted; Holmes closed his eyes, at times walked about the room, he inclined to Watson so the instrument screamed into his ear, having Watson grin and shut tight his eyes to endure it while he smirked.

When he finished Watson applauded twice, only twice, flippant.

- Huh! Said Holmes, strode two strides to him, putting again the violin to his ear, and struck the most acute loud long sound it could utter, long, it didn't end, the bow had still length, it seemed the neighborhood cats would respond with the saddest whine of their own.

At last Watson growled unable to take it, his face distended in a wide grin when he pushed Holmes somewhat gently away.

When it was nighttime, Watson's opened lips wouldn't free Holmes's cheekbone, they were staying there, hovering the same spot, without any change; only his breath was busy, steaming up Holmes' cheekbone, escaping by the corners it was allowed to leave it clean, and then steaming it up again.

Holmes's left hand gripped Watson's forearm, this one kept beneath his chin, the hand at the end of it falling like a caress on the side of his face.

Suddenly Watson's lips did flutter. – I love you Holmes. He murmured.

Holmes rolled on him, without any word they restarted the activity Watson liked best and Holmes liked second best (because nothing would ever give Holmes a thrill so high as coming up with a very elusive answer); having sex, that was definitely the most accurate dictionary definition of sublime.

It sufficed that Holmes had rolled on top of him so that they both had an erection again; without any demand Watson opened his legs and Holmes penetrated him, they both were accustomed and neither complained much about the pain, they were both very much into it, the possession was in that way stark. Holmes didn't even wait for Watson to adjust, his hips struck forward and pulled back, and struck harder, and pulled back faster; for a moment it arrived to him the image of dogs doing the same, he didn't mind, it seemed that happened to him often, from monkey to dog, Holmes enjoyed discerning the animal within him, it meant he was still wild enough to detach from logic.

He was going faster and Watson wasn't closing his mouth, it seemed that day both of them were liking speed in everything. The flap of Holmes's groin against Watson's buttocks was being heard.

- Do you like it fast Watson? He panted out, because he figured it would be hot to hear it from him.

Watson shook his head sideways against the pillow, not as a negation but as an "I can't speak".

Their orgasms were as potent as ever. Ten minutes of rest and they were at it again.

In the morning the silhouette of a naked Holmes was standing against the radiance of the window; Holmes was looking out and figuring the speed of horses, when they would surpass a pedestrian, and when one would cross another, and when had that woman become pregnant, and when had that man stumbled, and where to was Watson rolling on the bed, and when would that young lady cross the street and ask for his advice…