The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

London who are accustomed to it," he retorted dryly, his sardonic tone defeated by the hand that was sliding up my thigh. "Nevertheless..."
    He removed his hand, to my disappointment, and turned back to the stage, where a loud crescendo was beginning. I allowed him a few more minutes to appreciate the music before changing my posture again. I lifted one hand to scratch at my chest, and then allowed it to fall naturally to my lap, just brushing my groin. I arched again in my chair and found an angle that caused an entirely genuine murmur of pleasure to bubble up from my throat.
    Holmes could take no more. He leaned over, replaced his hand on my leg in a grip just short of painful, and announced our immediate departure into my ear in a low murmur that nevertheless brooked no argument. As he stood and made his way towards the back of the box, I protested quietly.
    "But Holmes, the third act!"
    He spun around and seized the back of my chair. "I don't care about the third sodding act!" he snarled at me in an undertone. "Kindly do me the courtesy of getting out of that chair and following me immediately, Doctor, before I bodily drag you out of the door."
    In no time at all we were outside in the crisp autumnal air and Holmes was hailing a hansom cab. Silently we climbed into it and were soon underway, but not two minutes after it had begun to move I found myself in something of a predicament.
    I had been relatively composed while sitting still, my teasing of Holmes notwithstanding, and I had even found a pleasurable anticipation in thinking of our return to Baker Street. But the rocking, jolting movement of the cab was sending corresponding jolts of erotic sensation spiking through me, and I had to bite my lip not to cry out. Within a few minutes I was fully erect in my trousers, and was obliged to spread my legs a little wider on the seat to accommodate my arousal.
    Throughout all of this, Holmes had been sitting opposite me, silent and staring out of the window. I am sure that I made no sound, although my hands were twined together tightly in my lap, nevertheless some small gasp or noise clearly betrayed me, for Holmes was suddenly scrutinising me in the dim, flickering light of the passing gas lamps.
    "Watson? Whatever is the matter?"
    "Nothing," I gritted out, "I am fine."
    It was a terrible attempt at a lie, and naturally he did not believe a word of it. In an instant he had pulled both window blinds down and was at my side. The lack of light did not impede him in the slightest as his sensitive fingers darted over my clenched hands, the pulse racing at my throat and the perspiration I could feel collecting at my hairline.
    "Are you in pain?" he asked, sounding panicked. "God forgive me, it was a ridiculous notion, I do not know what possessed me to–"
    "Not in pain," I managed, through the rushing of blood in my ears. The rocking sway of the cab was massaging my prostate in a regular rhythm, flooding me with an almost electric sensation and giving me a terrible urge to fling myself onto the man beside me and rut like an animal. "I think the hansom may have been a mistake."
    "Oh." His touch moved instantly down to my groin and brushed my length straining at my trouser buttons. " Oh –"
    "Don't touch me!" I spoke harshly to him, shoving his hand away, and in response he grabbed the lapels of my jacket and pulled me into him for a kiss. I moaned and instantly opened my mouth to his, revelling in the almost-obscene feeling of his tongue wet and slick against my own.
    When he broke away, after a small eternity, he rubbed his nose in my hair and murmured breathlessly against my ear, "Watson, it seems highly probable to me that you are going to come off before we reach Baker Street; therefore the only question which you need to address is whether you would prefer to do it in your clothes or in my hand."
    "Are you mad? We are in a public hansom cab!" I hissed at him as my heart skipped a beat at his insane suggestion, made all the more arousing by the matter-of-fact tone of voice in which he delivered it.
    In response he leaned away abruptly and shot the small bolts on the inside of the doors.
    "There is the matter of ... evidence..." I protested weakly, for my body thought it sounded like an excellent idea, despite a dozen equally excellent reasons why it most clearly was nothing of the sort.
    "Let me worry about that," he breathed, stroking his fingertips down the side of my face. I could not help myself – I cradled his