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“If I don’t…deal with my problem it affects my concentration,” blurted Holmes.
“Well, it’s doing bugger all for mine,” snapped Watson.
Silence. Awkward, embarrassed, angry silence. A bitter darkness on a bright summer day.
“As a physician, an army doctor, you must have encountered-”
“Not like that.” And not you. Not you. Watson knew that the ‘incident’ shouldn’t have upset him the way it had. Soldiers masturbated all the time and he’d dealt with those who feared the dire consequences of their actions. To say nothing of removing the occasional foreign body from rectums and treating venereal infections. Until last night he had regarded himself us unshockable, but Holmes had proved him wrong.
“We should curtail our holiday and return to Baker Street,” said Holmes. A shadow passed over his face. “That is, if you intend to return.”
“Of course I do.” The thought of leaving home, of leaving Holmes, hadn’t even occurred to him. “It was…unexpected, that’s all.” They had both been staring doggedly at the vista of the South Downs, but now he turned to face Holmes. “You’re a dark horse, old boy.”
“It isn’t something one boasts about.” There were black shadows under Holmes’ bleak eyes and Watson wondered if he had slept at all.
“But after all these years -”
“You still lie, sometimes you tell me you’ve been to your club when it’s obvious that you’ve visited a brothel.”
“That doesn’t happen often,” mumbled Watson.
“Nor does my... aberration.”
Last night, in a fit of temper, Watson would have argued that his adventures in Southwark were at least normal, but he no longer had any desire to hurt his dearest friend. “If it did, I’m sure that I’d have noticed it before now.”
“You are not entirely unobservant,” replied Holmes with a hint of a smile.
“Thank you.” He reached out to pat Holmes’ arm in reconciliation and found himself clutching his hand instead. “Why...like that…and you bought that thing with you.”
“I believed it would become... necessary.” There was a pale stain of scarlet on his white cheeks, but Holmes didn’t withdraw his hand. “Without work to occupy my mind and with you insisting that I rest, I knew that my thoughts would soon become carnal.”
“Why the blazes didn’t just use your hand?” The question had plagued him ever since he’d walked in on Holmes doing that.
“Isn’t that a course of action you should advise me against?”
“I’m damned if I know. I’ve sent men traumatised in battle to insane asylums and I’ve dealt with chaps blinded by shrapnel, but I’ve never met anyone who went mad or blind as a result of self-abuse, no matter what the textbooks say.” Watson chuckled. “Although I once encountered a lad who tried to get a medical discharge on the back of it and I packed him off to the front pretty sharpish.”
“You think that all the medical texts are wrong?”
“No, I’m not saying that, but perhaps it’s only dangerous if carried to extremes, a moderate indulgence may have few ill-effects.”
“Perhaps,” conceded Holmes, “but I prefer not to take the risk.”
“So that’s why you…you thought it would alleviate the risk if you used an object – a toy- rather than your hand.”
“It wasn’t intentional, not the first time, quite the opposite in fact.”
“How the devil do you do that by accident?”
Holmes glanced around. They were on edge of an open field with only the skylarks and lapwings for company, but he was uneasy. “I’d rather answer that question in private.”
“Then let’s go back to the house. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink and it’s getting deuce hot out here.”
“So it is.” Holmes squeezed Watson’s hand. “I appreciate your willingness to listen.”
“I’m not one to condemn a man without a hearing.” Watson turned towards the house, confused by the depth of the emotion he felt.
*
There was a pleasant parlour in their temporary home, light and airy, with windows on three sides. Holmes sat on the window seat, so that Watson could only see his clean cut profile, and after a brief silence he began his tale. “I was fifteen years of age. It was well after midnight and I was supposed to be asleep, but I was conducting an experiment involving a dead frog and some chemical solutions. My intention was to observe and record the effect on the creature’s skin, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept getting aroused and I had to fight the urge to indulge in self-abuse.”
“I never knew frogs were that exciting,” muttered Watson. He squirmed under the glare that earnt him. “Sorry, Holmes. We all experience difficulties at that age.”
Holmes nodded. “I thought it might soothe it if I pressed something against myself. Don’t smirk, Watson. I was young and very naïve, so I found a cushion and pushed it into my groin with my legs locked around it. It felt wonderful and, despite all my good intentions, I couldn’t stop rubbing my penis on it, with inevitable consequences. Afterwards it seemed absurd and I was thoroughly ashamed of myself, but a few days later I did it again. Then I decided to experiment. I soon discovered that anything too hard or scratchy was to be avoided. On the other hand a feather pillow was too soft to provide sufficient friction.” Holmes could have been talking about any of his scientific investigations, if it weren’t for the blush on his high cheekbones.
Watson took the plunge. “Was that when the mohair elephant came into the picture?”
Holmes bowed his head. “The first toy I ever experimented with wasn’t an elephant. It was a woolly lamb on wheels, a relic of my infancy, I discovered it when I was clambering about in the attic. I’d bolted the trapdoor after me, but I was still shaking with fear and excitement as I undressed. I knew that I’d die of humiliation if anyone found out, yet the desire for relief was too strong. I crouched over it and pushed my…my penis into its moth-eaten fur, then I began to roll it back and forth.” His eyes closed for a moment. “I must have looked ludicrous, just as I did yesterday evening with a toy elephant squashed between my groin and the sofa.”
“No, not ludicrous, not to me.” Watson remembered those pistoning hips, that rapt expression. “Even if you did almost give me a heart attack.” They exchanged wry smiles and Watson, who hadn’t been embarrassed before, cleared his throat. “Still, there’s no real harm done.”
“I never meant you to know,” said Holmes after a tiny pause.
“I was bound to find out in the end.”
“So it would seem.” Holmes picked up a conch shell from the windowsill, turned it over in his hands, and put it down again. “I only indulge when the intensity of my need becomes compelling, then a toy provides a simple solution to my problem.”
“There are other solutions. If you want to avoid emotional entanglements there are brothels like the one I visit, women or… or men if you prefer.”
Silence, followed by a long and weary sigh. “I’ve no desire for the former and the latter is far too dangerous.” Holmes picked the shell up again. “Besides, I’ve grown accustomed to the sensation of mohair or velveteen.”
“Well, I suppose that there are worse…peccadilloes. I’ve encountered a few myself – as a physician I mean.”
“Naturally, since you have no peccadilloes of your own.”
“I used to think not…” Watson looked down at his boots. “I suppose I visit that house of ill repute more than I ought – Oh, hang it all, Holmes, I used to the rest of your bad habits, the violin at three in the morning, your damned cocaine, so if…if I were to blunder in on you again, I wouldn’t be so bloody officious next time.”
Holmes’ black eyes widened. “You’re saying that you wouldn’t object?”
“I’m saying that – it would be a privilege.” He didn’t dare look at Holmes. “Now shall we see what Mrs Davenport has left us for supper?”
*
They got through supper, although Holmes picked at his food and then pushed his plate away, declaring that Mrs Hudson was a far superior cook to their temporary servant. “Well, at least she doesn’t live in,” said Watson.
“Thank heavens for that.” Holmes threw his napkin down on the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Watson poured himself another glass of Madeira, but he took just a few sips before he put it down. He needed a clear head, one that wasn’t full of racing and conflicting thoughts. Should he go and see what Holmes was up to? And would they both regret it if he did? To hell with that, it would be ten times worse if he let Holmes down after all his fine talk of privilege. He took another gulp of his wine and walked upstairs into an uncharted land.
Holmes had left his bedroom door ajar and changed into his nightshirt. He told Watson to come in when he rapped on the open door and didn’t attempt to hide the mohair elephant. It sat on his pillow with the summer sunset reflected in its brown glass eyes.
Watson tried not to stare at it. “I – oh, blast!”
Holmes chuckled. He scooped up the elephant and held it out to him. “Take a look, its German Steiff and the workmanship is superb”
“German? You might at least have bought British.”
“You have an absurd sense of propriety, Watson.”
“Or none at all.” Watson looked at the toy elephant as if it were an unexploded bomb. It was about a foot long with a ridged back and he could see the places where the golden mohair had worn thin. “How do you…start?”
“Are you sure that you want me to answer that?”
“Absolutely sure.” Watson gave him a quick, awkward hug. It wasn’t something he’d ever done before and the heat of Holmes’ body seemed to burn through the thin cotton nightshirt. He stepped back. “Here, you’d better have this.”
Holmes took his toy. He moistened his lips, looking enchantingly bashful. “I need something to lean on, unfortunately the headboard is too high and the footboard too low. The edge of the chest of drawers may be suitable.” His gaze slid across the room to where the oak drawers stood and his cheeks burnt.
“Why don’t we find out?” Watson offered Holmes his hand.
Two paces took them there and Holmes hesitated, lust warring with shame on his face. Watson kissed his hand. “Go on, old chap. I interrupted you last night, so you must have unfinished business with your German friend.”
“Bless you, Watson.” Holmes’ brilliant smile lit up the room. “My English friend is the dearest of all.”
Now it was Watson who blushed as Holmes turned towards the drawers and hitched up his nightshirt.
The drawers were a little low and it was with bent knees that Holmes pressed into the toy. His eyes half closed and he gave a long sigh of relief that sent a wicked shiver through Watson. Holmes began to push into the mohair back of the beast with rapid if ungainly movements. “Damn!” Holmes repositioned himself and the toy before he began to move again. Eager as he was he couldn’t seem to find a rhythm and he bent lower, feet spread for balance. “Oh, God…” He readjusted the angle once more and tried again, and then he stepped back with an oath.
As he did so Watson got his first proper view of Holmes’ elongated penis. God, he was big! His own penis, stiff inside his trousers, didn’t wholly measure up. Yet it was making its presence felt and he couldn’t deny the nature of his excitement.
“This isn’t working,” growled Holmes. He looked around, desperately seeking an alternative spot. “There isn’t anything in this room that’s the right height, that’s why I went downstairs yesterday.”
That was the obvious answer and yet to move would break this insane enchantment. An alternative solution sprang to mind and he spoke before he could doubt the wisdom of it “Come here, you can rest your elephant on my hip and brace yourself against me.” He shrugged out of his jacket, which felt too hot and confining. “Come on, we might as well give it a try.”
Holmes didn’t hesitate, a moment later Watson felt the weight of fur on his hip and of Holmes all down his right side. He put his arm around Holmes’ waist and a low moan rang in his ear. Holmes’ thrusts were sharper and surer now, and Watson strained to stand steady against the onslaught. He hadn’t reckoned on the discomfort; the grinding on his thigh sent a lightning bolt of agony through his right leg. He gritted his teeth, determined to hold on. It shouldn’t take long and he – Oh hell!
His cry of pain brought Holmes to an abrupt halt. “What the devil’s the matter with you?” He was flustered and agitated, but he was also clearly worried.
“It’s my leg, the old war wound.” Watson limped over to the bed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, I should have read the signs.”
“You had other things on your mind.” Watson closed his eyes, fighting down the pain.
Holmes touched his bowed shoulder. “Here, have some water.”
“Thank you.” When he opened his eyes they were level with Holmes’ groin and there was still a partial erection beneath that white nightshirt. “You were so near…”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Holmes, but Watson could hear the strain in his voice. He patted the bed beside him. “Give me a minute, the pain’s starting to ease off, and then we’ll think how to work this out.”
The bedsprings creaked as Holmes sat down. “I can wait.”
“I don’t think you can.” Watson took a deep breath to steady himself. “You said that you only do this when you’re desperate to spend yourself.”
“I am,” whispered Holmes, “but I’ve no wish to cause you further pain.”
“You won’t.” Watson stood up cautiously and hobbled over to Holmes’ elephant. There was a wet, dark patch on its side. Holmes had been leaking pre-ejaculate all over it. Lust tore through Watson’s belly and roughened his voice. “Here, you’ll need this.”
Holmes took it after a second’s hesitation and held it to his cotton-covered groin. “Oh…” His eyes closed in frustrated bliss. “How can we…Ah…”
Watson stroked his hair, burying his fingers in the dark strands. “It’s nice to be the one with all the answers for once.” He shrugged off his waistcoat and unfastened his tie before he kicked off his shoes. “I’m going to lie on the bed and you can stretch out on top of me with your toy between us. That should give you all the friction you need.” Not that he thought Holmes would need that much, this would probably be over in about two minutes.
Holmes stared at him with wide, glazed eyes. “Oh, please.” He pulled his nightshirt over his head, revealing his resurgent erection. “Please…”
And for that look Watson would have walked naked into a volcano.
Nevertheless, it took some wriggling and rearrangement of trapped limbs to get themselves into a comfortable position. More than comfortable as far as Watson was concerned; there was a soft eiderdown under him and Holmes above him, with that mohair beastie wedged in between his fly buttons and Holmes’ rampant prick. From the quick-fire breathing in his ear Holmes had no complains about the arrangement either. He keep undulating on the toy beneath him and Watson, who could feel every strong shove of his angular hips, was surprised that he’d lasted this long. God, at this rate he’d be the one who spent himself first.
Holmes groaned and muttered something Watson didn’t catch. He gripped the back of Holmes’ neck. “What?”
All the answer he got was another groan.
Watson reached down and grasped Holmes’ bare buttocks. He kneaded the firm flesh and pressed down, driving Holmes even harder into the toy trapped between their heaving bodies. Holmes threw his head back. “Oh god, please – my penis!” He lifted himself up, bracing his weight on his arms and blinked down at Watson. “My poor prick…” he whispered. Then he surged forward and Watson arched up to meet him. Holmes moaned and thrust furiously. The muscles in his outstretched arms knotted with the effort and his grin became a grimace.
At the eleventh hour he lowered his head and covered Watson’s mouth with his in an uneven, uncertain kiss. Watson felt blood break from his lip, but he wouldn’t have traded this clumsy meeting of mouths for the world. He buried his fingers in Holmes’ hair returning kiss for kiss as they writhed together.
Holmes cried out, shuddering as his release engulfed him. “God, please…John!”
And Watson, on the verge of spending himself, forced his eyes open to catch a glimpse of white semen spurting over golden fur.
*
When Watson opened his eyes the oil lamp had been lit and a snatch of blue-purple sky was visible through the seaward window. He rolled over in bed and there was Holmes, wakeful and watchful. He had donned his nightshirt while Watson slept. “Good evening,” he said as if they were in their sitting room at Baker Street.
Watson frowned, this formality wasn’t what he’d expected. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“I am, if you are not remorseful.” Holmes reached behind him and set the mohair elephant down between them. “And if don’t think that my peccadillo is pathetic now that your lust has been sated.”
“Erotic, not pathetic,” mumbled Watson.
A sunray smile transformed Holmes’ face. “You did seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to be so jolly smug about it.” It was true though. His clothes were a rumpled mess and his undergarments were in a disgraceful state. “I ought to get undressed.”
“Later.” Holmes put his arms around him and Watson abandoned all notion of moving. He basked in the warm embers of their passion, with a kaleidoscope of cherished moments drifting through his mind. Holmes nudged him. “Are you awake?”
“Mm, yes, of course, I was just remembering.”
“Remembering what precisely?”
“Us. You.” He ran his hand down Holmes’ side. “Why didn’t we do this years ago?”
“It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”
Watson lifted his head. “Appropriate in what sense?” He pointed at the mohair elephant. “None of this is de rigueur.”
“What would your reaction have been if you’d discovered me rutting with a toy six years ago?”
“I would have – I’d have been a complete ass about it.” He wasn’t proud of that admission, but Holmes deserved total honesty. “It would have forced me to confront things about myself that I wasn’t ready to face, so I’d have lashed out at you and then packed my bags.”
“That’s what I feared and why I didn’t share my secret. I didn’t want to lose you.”
“You haven’t lost me.” Watson kissed Holmes on the lips. “And you aren’t going to either.”
“I might, you have a romantic soul, my friend, and I am not one for soft words and sweet gestures.” Holmes reached out for the toy elephant. “And I only do this when necessity drives me to it.”
Watson took the toy from him. “Then you cover him in your seed.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “Him?”
“Given your other peccadillos I’d say that this is a male elephant.”
“It is a piece of fabric stuffed with sawdust.”
“Of which you are rather fond.”
“It serves a purpose,” Holmes ran his finger along the toy’s ridged back, “and it feels wonderful when I rub my prick on it, but it’s still just an object.”
“You’re fond of objects.” Watson wondered why this insight had never struck him before. “You’re always touching things, almost caressing them, like that seashell downstairs.”
“I find tactile things fascinating,” admitted Holmes.
“Especially the furry ones,” replied Watson with a wry smile.
“And ex-army doctors, them most of all.” Holmes traced the line of Watson’s jaw with his violinist’s fingers. “One in particular is very dear to me.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.” Watson held him close and Holmes snuggled into his embrace.
Their silence was companionable and it was a while before Watson spoke again. “Do you prefer elephants or do other toys interest you?”
“I once had a brown and tan velveteen dog that I was very attached to.”
“In every sense, I’m sure,” said Watson and they both giggled. A dog then, British made obviously.
“When I lived in Montague Street I sometimes used to go to sleep with him – it – under my groin, but I curtailed the practise.”
“Why? Oh, I see, one too many nocturnal emissions.”
“I wasn’t a schoolboy,” Holmes sighed, “although that did happen once or twice. Far more often I’d go to bed determined not to indulge, but I’d wake in the early hours to find myself grinding into him, often too close to emission to regain control before I spent myself.”
“And you were afraid that too many emissions would weaken your physical and mental constitution,” said Watson.
“I am nothing without my intellect and my work. A choice between my brain and my penis is no choice at all, but I cannot deny my body’s needs indefinitely.”
“I suspect that the answer is everything in moderation.”
“That was the trouble, I couldn’t be moderate with that sweet softness under my hips.”
“You might find it easier now that you’re older, and I’m here to keep an eye on you.”
“Just as you always do.” Holmes planted a gentle kiss on Watson’s cheek. “Success isn’t guaranteed, but I would prefer to conduct the experiment with you at my side.” He laughed softly. “Assuming that your presence doesn’t aggravate my problem.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, but I’m not sleeping in my clothes so you’ll have to behave yourself while I change into my pyjamas.”
Holmes winked at him. “I’ll be the soul of virtue.”
Watson laughed and gave him a good-natured slap across the rump before he scrambled out of bed. It was cold and dark in his room across the landing. He left his clothes in a heap on the bed, making a mental note to move them before the daily servant arrived in the morning. Then he pulled his pyjamas on and hastened back to Holmes.
“Well, I don’t have to be you to guess where Jumbo’s gone.”
Holmes stretched under the eiderdown. “All part of the experiment,” he murmured. He lay on his stomach with his head pillowed on his folded arms. A tiny ripple of movement ran down his spine and Watson shook his head in affectionate amusement. “You’re incorrigible.”
“It’s delightful.” Holmes wriggled his hips. “Come back to bed and make my happiness complete.”
“Don’t be silly.” Watson remaindered himself that he was too much of an old duffer to start getting all tearful.
He got into bed and Holmes draped his arm across his chest. Watson kissed his tousled hair. “Are you hard?”
“Partially, but I don’t want to spend again tonight.”
Watson smiled. Holmes was impossible, but that was why he loved him. “Try to get some sleep and we’ll see what tomorrow brings.” Watson’s smile broadened. He had plans for tomorrow, although it all depended on how far one could extend the definition of moderation.