The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

fingers coated liberally from the pot of Vaseline placed upon his bedside table.
    Boldly, I pushed into him, flexing my fingers gently, and soon found the small gland that made him close his eyes and moan softly. My mouth dry, I stared at him hungrily, feasting my eyes upon the beads of sweat at his temples, the flushed skin on his chest, and his erection lying heavily against his taut stomach. I crooked my fingers again, in that most intimate of caresses, and his hips hitched up towards me of their own volition. He grated out my name as a hand flailed in my direction and I caught it in mine, entwining our fingers as I bent my head to pull his cock into my mouth. The taste of him was already strong on my tongue and I was not surprised when, scarcely a minute later, his other hand began carding through my hair and cradling my jaw in a mute warning I knew very well.
    I swallowed as he climaxed, but in truth it was an automatic reaction – most of my attention was centred on the extraordinary new sensation that I could feel him fluttering around my fingers as he convulsed. It was something I had experienced with other men but never with Holmes, and the physical feeling left me aching with a combination of tenderness and desire. When he went limp against the bed, I kissed his softening penis and gently withdrew my fingers but left them just brushing the entrance to his body, unwilling to relinquish this new closeness that had so unexpectedly come about.
    Mutely, he unwound our fingers and pulled me up the bed to lie beside him. He kissed me deeply as I tried to surreptitiously flex some feeling back into the fingers that had been twined with his; our abused poker can attest that Sherlock Holmes is no shrinking damsel and he had been gripping my hand tightly in order to avoid a passionate cry that would surely have brought Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. However, subtlety is a wasted effort around my friend – as he grasped my wrist and brushed his lips over my fingers, a small smile curved the corners of his mouth.
    "My poor Doctor ... the agonies I put you through."
    "Quite right you do. You know very well you have a grip of iron, my dear fellow." I grumbled, but only half-heartedly. It was difficult to sound properly severe, as he had taken the tip of my middle finger into his mouth and was delicately tracing it with tongue and teeth. My arousal, which I had been ignoring in favour of my partner, now made itself felt once more and I struggled to control my breathing when his fingers outlined my length through the trousers I was still wearing.
    "Take these off," he murmured against my wet fingertip. I hastened to comply, dimly aware of him fumbling about on the bedside table. As I lay back down beside him, there were a dozen questions in my head – "Why did you not simply ask me, if you were curious about this act? Where in the world did you acquire the bizarre object that is now reposing on your floor?" – but when his warm, slick fingers closed expertly around me, I was deprived of speech and even of thought.
    * * * *
    Afterwards we lay together on his narrow bed, barely wide enough for two tall men to stretch out on but neither of us willing to move. Holmes had roused himself just enough to pull a blanket over both of us, for the evening was indeed a chill one, but then unusually for him had made no move to get up and reach for his dressing-gown. I lay with my head on his damp shoulder, my eyes closed and one hand still resting on his hip. I had been clutching it fiercely in the peak of my passion and now made a conscious effort to relax my grip, and saw small marks already beginning to form on his beautiful pale skin.
    I had no wish to disturb the peace between us, but I could not stop my mind returning again and again to the scene I had interrupted with my abrupt entry into Holmes's bedroom. However, increased intimacy has likewise increased Holmes's ability to follow my train of thought and break into it, and while I was deciding how best to phrase the question his voice interrupted my thoughts.
    "Whitechapel."
    I lifted my head. "I beg your pardon?" I asked, puzzled.
    "It was in Whitechapel that I obtained that object, and also some advice about the best way to insert it–"
    "Holmes!" I interrupted him, mildly shocked at his bluntness. He raised a sardonic eyebrow at me.
    "That was what you were wondering, was it not?"
    Flustered, I tried to recover my composure. "Well, I admit that I am curious, but I would