THE MANLY ART OF SINGLESTICK
Since Watson's return to health, they made time at least twice a week.
Sticks raised, collars akimbo, drenched with sweat, they went at it
ferociously in shirt-sleeves.
At first Holmes made allowances
for the injured limb. That soon proved both unnecessary and unwise.
Holmes was no mean teacher and rapidly, as form followed function, the
glory days of Watson's athleticism returned.
This time, however, the day would apparently go to Holmes.
"Ah!" In a final thrust he pressed Watson down. "Had enough?" Holmes ejaculated in triumphant climax.
Watson grinned and rose, stick at the ready. "Not on your bloody life!"
GENESIS TO EXODUS
In the beginning ACD created Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was without
passion and void; and darkness was upon his soul. The Spirit moved and
said, "Let there be another," and Watson came--a second light--and the
evening and the morning were the first day. And the second. And the
third. And so on.
One day Watson railed, "Alas, I cannot live as such! A man must be more, must he not?"
From
the light and the seas and the grasses and the fish and fowl and cattle
came only silence as an answer. And so, Watson left.
Alone, Sherlock wept.
THE AWAKENING
Watson's tongue touches places transcending flesh. It prods a spirit
scarred and chilled, yet far from dead. It stirs a soulful ghost
oblivious to proprieties of affection. It laps at erstwhile Eden where
naked joy never twisted into shame.
The tongue recedes, and
Holmes knows fear. It's an all-encompassing, visceral thing. Not loss
of the sensual: that he has lived without and should willingly, need
be. But the places the tongue touched within him, Holmes cannot locate;
he has tried and failed.
Without his Boswell, Holmes is not himself--cannot be.
Holmes grabs Watson, crushing to him for dear life.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BROCADE DRESSING GOWN
I chose the burgundy brocade for him. Regardless of his cold nature, Holmes is ever the aesthete.
His fingers slide over the
shoulder. Effortlessly, they erect my nipple. They drop lower, and I am
on fire again. Like as not, he is deducing my activities from clues
upon the silk. I can think only of his hand upon my body and pray
that--whatever the reason--his interest never wanes.
I want him to feel what I
feel, but he cannot; he is Sherlock Holmes. So we make do through the
brocade--I on the inside, he on the out.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DARING DETECTIVES
I arrived to find Holmes flush
with excitement and tearing about our lodgings. Bits of costume and
greasepaints lay strewn about. His handcuffs sat on the table; his
favoured riding crop he waved as he rummaged.
"Watson! I beg you, make all due haste! Lestrade awaits! Bring a stout stick; your mahogany, should serve.
"You have a case!" said I. The slow month had worn badly upon Holmes, and it eased me greatly to see him so restored.
"Why, no. None at all." Holmes cracked the crop smartly against his palm and proceeded into the other room.
Hastily, I followed.