Work Text:
Two male bodies, entwined under an unhallowed moon. The man moves upon the boy, an act which in this year of 1889 carries a maximum penalty of life imprisonment. Dirty fingernails scrape on a sunken and mossy tomb. The sounds they make crack the silence of the dead. Eventually the man steps back, his chest heaves from his exertions. He has not emitted semen.
*
Sherlock Holmes is masturbating. When Watson knocks on his bedroom door to tell him that Lestrade is here he sighs in exasperation and tucks his needy prick back into his trousers.
*
The cadaver is split and polluted from the Thames. It is almost small enough to be that of a child, but it is not. Stunted by poor diet and bleak, dark rooms it is a young man, perhaps nineteen years of age. Carpenter’s apprentice, says Holmes. There is a workhouse stamp on his right boot so they begin there.
They draw a blank at the Marylebone workhouse. The youth came in under the name of George Smith to spend four nights in the infirmary and two more in the casual ward before being tipped out onto the streets in his charity boots. Holmes gives the name to the police, although he is certain that it is an alias.
“The fourth one in five months, what does it all mean, Holmes?” asks Watson as they wait at the kerb for a cab.
“That is not yet clear to me,” admits Holmes. His prick stirs inappropriately, just to remind him that they have long unfinished business.
*
It remains unfinished, that day and the next. Time and tide and death supersede it, besides he is not in the habit of acquiescing to his prick’s demands for emission. Although sometimes it presumes too much, forgetting that it is subjugated to his will.
It is most insistent that evening, rising repeatedly to prod the front of his trousers so that he is forced to swirl his dressing gown around himself to hid the evidence from Watson. Their intimate friendship does not extend to discussion of such matters, although he has on occasion been tempted to seek Watson’s opinion on his unruly member.
Watson looks up from his tales of sailors. “What’s so amusing, old fellow?”
Holmes swallows another chuckle. “I was merely considering possible topics of conversation.”
The good doctor sets his book aside. “Such as?”
“Nothing of any account,” says Holmes airily and Watson looks crestfallen.
*
There are no more murders in the blaze of August. Other cases come traipsing and pleading to the door. Most are turned aside, but one holds Holmes interest long enough for them to journey north to the furnace heat of Sheffield. A villain is apprehended and will doubtless hang for his heinous crimes. Watson purchases a set of pearl handled cutlery like a spinster squirreling things away for her bottom drawer and they retire to their hotel for the night.
Watson stands at the window, smoking a cigar and yearning for London’s green parks amidst all the industrial grime. Holmes watches the dappling of sunset on his head and shoulders. Inevitably his penis rises to the occasion and he presses his palm to his groin while Watson’s attention is diverted. The wretched thing is becoming a nuisance. Holmes decides grudgingly that he will have to permit it an emission when they return to Baker Street.
They retire for the night and talk for a while like schoolboys in the dormitory, whispers flowing back and forth between their narrow beds. Watson snores. Holmes knows this already, but it gives him the security to slip a hand under his nightshirt. His phallus leaps to his touch and he teases it several times to the point of emission.
“Are you all right?” Watson’s sleepy grunt strikes a chill into his heart.
“Yes, perfectly.” The lie sounds strained.
Watson rolls over in the darkness and Holmes catches a glimpse of his face in a shred of street light. The doctor frowns. “You shouldn’t abuse yourself so much, Holmes.”
*
This time they get to the body before the Thames does. It is found in a cemetery, hidden under a shroud of leaves, and there is no doubt as to what has taken place. Lestrade seems to be more disgusted by sodomy than by murder. The dried smears of blood and semen on the corpse’s thighs raise his hackles. Holmes lets him rant.
It seems simple enough, an assignation, a coupling condemned by state and church alike, a glorious quivering emission deep in the boy’s rectum. Then the fear that demands that the young prostitute be silenced forever, dead among the dead, to tell no tales that lead to disgrace and the prison cell.
“The blaggard was a miserable coward,” says Watson, whose thoughts have mirrored his own.
“A sodomite is hardly going to be a brave man, is he now?” says Lestrade scornfully.
Holmes does not bother to correct him. Lestrade’s misinformed option is of no importance, besides he is certain that this matter is not as simple as it appears to be.
*
Holmes’ penis has become troublesome again despise the emission he allowed it after their return from Sheffield. He had hoped that would content it for a time, but it will not lie quietly, least of all when Watson is around.
Holmes sighs and leans back in his chair as his hand drifts down to comfort it. His objection is not so much to its demands upon him as such, more to its inconvenient choice of moment. He squeezes his groin through his trousers, but that only makes his penis want more. There, so to speak, is the rub. When time and opportunity present he will luxuriate in the waves of sensation fondling his phallus produces. It is quite frankly delightful, at least until his penis tries frantically to climax. An emission may be an ecstatic experience, but it is also quite debilitating. Lassitude and a fogging of his mind in the aftermath have long since convinced him that this is one medical warning he should heed.
There is no good sense in damaging his great intellect for two minutes of bodily delight. So he very seldom allows himself an emission, no matter how much his penis begs for one.
*
Holmes knows that Watson saw the hard ridge in his trousers when he climbed up onto the warehouse roof. He also knows from the scowl he is given that there is a storm, or at the very least a lecture, brewing.
Watson bites his tongue until they are safely within Baker Street’s homely walls. “I will speak frankly,” he says and then averts his eyes and clears his throat. “This cannot continue. You must not go on abusing yourself to such an extent.”
“What extent is that?” Holmes asks calmly. Watson really is getting in a dreadful flurry about all this.
“To the extent that you are becoming physically aroused in public.”
Holmes smiles. “I suspect that happens to all of us on occasion.”
“Not with the frequency it happens to you nor without obvious cause.” Watson reins in his temper. “It simply won’t do, old man.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Watson, be so good as to pour us both a brandy. Then sit down and calm down. I have no objection to discussing the condition of my penis with you, but I will not be subjected to an ill-informed tirade.”
Now he has offended Watson’s professional pride. “Have you forgotten that I am a medical man, Holmes? My views on this matter can hardly be described as ill-informed.”
Holmes sighs and rolls his eyes. Patience. Now. “You are under a misapprehension then, doctor. An assumption that because I pleasure myself frequently I must also be spending my seed regularly, whereas, in truth, I emit far less often than you do.”
“You can’t possibly know that, besides which we’re not talking about me.”
There is a faint and delightful flush on Watson’s fair skin, one that Holmes finds irresistible. “I agree that we were not discussing your visits to Madam Katherine’s establishment in the Borough.”
“How the devil did you-” Watson remembers who is talking to and he looks away, down at the hearth. “That’s quite different…occasional congress with a woman is necessary.”
Holmes raises a mocking eyebrow. “Is it, by god? Let us hope then that you don’t gain the pox from these necessary visits of yours or weaken your war-ravaged constitution further by wasting your vital essence on a whore.”
Watson goes white and then red. “I...I have done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Nor have I,” replies Holmes smugly.
*
The slow drift of summer into autumn brings with it another body washed up upon the shingle at the riverside. Death and the Thames have gnawed at it until it is impossible to tell if he has been violated. Lestrade suspects it and Holmes is certain of it.
“There is a devilish pattern here,” he tells Watson as they stand on the shoreline. “We must trace it out by seeking the links, however tenuous they may be, between these unfortunate young men”
Watson shrugs. “Aside from the obvious, that they were all apparently willing to commit sodomy with a stranger, I don’t see what else there is.”
Holmes looked back at the sheet draped corpse. “This is a sad business, old friend, and we can do nothing here. Let us retire to Baker Street and see what we can deduce from the scraps of evidence we have gathered.”
They talk in the hansom cab of the murder and then of other more pleasant subjects. Their conversation of the previous week remains unfinished and unresolved. Either of them refer to it now, they have other things to ponder and a mutual understanding that they will eventually pick up the threads of their discussion.
*
They are down by the river again, at Limehouse, not a body this time. It is another investigation. One that Holmes is finding it difficult to concentrate on. His rampant penis is urging him to take it out and simulate it here with no regard for social niceties, to simulate it until it emits. He was woken twice in the night by its unrelenting demands and he has begun to fear that nothing save another emission will quieten it.
Not here, he tells it sharply and it fills his head with pictures of alleys and public conveniences. It tells him that it would only take moments and then it will be lax and content. And he will be dulled by it just when he most needs his wits about him, besides it would be demeaning to resort to a semi-public arena like a dog copulating in a gutter. Then there is his reluctance to surrender this vital urgency inside him. Not only will he be weary and worn once he has spent himself he will be without this buzzing quiver of sensation.
“Holmes, have you been listening to me at all?” demands Watson.
“Forgive me.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “It is difficult to focus when I am in such a state of arousal.”
*
The devil was playing dice with him that day. On their return to Baker Street he is greeted by a fraught and tearful young man. Their visitor is afraid of the law, but more fearful still of the killer who stalks the night. His name is Harry Jenkins and he is an errand boy who went one June night into Highgate cemetery with a man for an immoral purpose.
“Buggery,” says Watson bluntly and Holmes’ penis jerks in response.
He tells the unhappy youth that they will not hand him over to the police if he is truthful in his account of the night’s events. Harry begins haltingly, stumbling over his words and Holmes listens to his account of fellatio among the gravestones in an agony of frustration. He grips the sofa arm and concentrates on not spending himself. His balls hurt and he can feel the fluid seeping from the head of his prick. Even Watson, who declares that he has no interest in men, is a little hot under the collar. When Harry begins his shame-faced account of sodomy Holmes’ penis decides that it doesn’t care that Watson and the boy are present. He is going to emit in his trousers.
Holmes’ sharp teeth draw blood from his lip. He leaps to his feet. “One moment.” He cannot meet Watson’s knowing, pitying gaze as he rushes past him.
His bedroom door slams shut and he bends over with a low moan. It will happen the instant he touches himself and there is no help for it. He resists for a moment with his hand clenched at his waist. No man who hasn’t experienced can imagine what this desperate battle is like. The male body was not designed for this; thrust, spend and procreate is nature’s way. Holmes damns nature to hell and then the mystery suddenly resolves its self with absolute certainty.
He straightens up and whirls about. His sudden reappearance startles both men.
“Holmes, are you-“
He cuts across Watson and turns to Henry. “Did the man you were with spend himself?”
“No, sir, he never-“
“That’s why you’re still alive,” Holmes tells him triumphantly.
*
“It’s an absurd theory,” says Watson. “I honestly do not see how the murderer’s motive can be as you suggest. He would have to be completely deranged.”
“Not deranged.” Holmes flings himself into an armchair and a second later he is up and pacing again. “Obsessed perhaps, murderous certainly, that much I will grant you.” He pauses in front of the mantelpiece. “Let us assume that our man is educated, even intellectual. He is also aware of the twist in nature that makes him prefer his own sex and of the hazards of repeated emissions. At first he attempts to resist both vices, but he cannot. Men tempt him to take dire risks with both his liberty and his health. So eventually he vows that he will not allow himself to emit when he is with his male paramours.”
Watson snorts. “He might as well vow to journey to the moon.”
Holmes’ thin lips quirk. “He would disagree with you as would I, but no matter. We will not debate that now. Yet he is knows how arduous a task he has set himself, so he must impose some practical limitation. It is my belief that he permits himself a certain time in which to copulate, at the conclusion of which he will withdraw. However, there are occasions when he spends himself before the allotted time has expired.”
“Or he finds himself unable to stop before emission occurs,” says Watson, “and he blames his catamite for his failure.”
“Precisely so.”
“Then he must be barking mad,” retorts Watson. “Dear lord, you may deride me for my fortnightly visits to the Borough, but I am a great believer in moderation in all things. Surely it must be better for a man to-”
There is a heavy rat-tat on the front door. “Only the police knock like that,” says Holmes.
Lestrade is as incredulous and disbelieving as Watson has been and quickly pounces on the same conclusion. “The man must be a raving lunatic.” He leaves shaking his head in bewilderment, but Holmes is accustomed to the police being bemused when he is not.
*
All this does not bring him any nearer to catching the villain. Harry Jenkins’ description, sandy hair, brown eyes and of medium build, might fit thousands of men in London. The clue is in the linkage between the victims, but that is obscured and Holmes yawns, weary of pondering it. Jenkins’ description of the sex act fills the crack in his mind and his penis stiffens under his nightshirt.
His fingers clench on his thigh, but Holmes refuses to take it in hand. It came within a whisker of emitting earlier under circumstances that were both highly embarrassing and somewhat exciting. That terrible urgency has passed now, so there is the lesson, one must simply not give in, not even when it seems unbearable and inevitable. Nor does he intend to give it any further encouragement, quite the reverse in fact. He waits until his member reluctantly subsides and then he fits the cruel metal jugum ring around it. There will be no nocturnal emissions tonight.
*
Six victims, six sets of data pinned to the blackboard and the walls. George Smith is an alias. There is a William Burton and a Daniel Connor. The others have no names at all. No one has come forward to claim them as kith and kin.
That saddens Holmes. It seems that only he can do right by them. He scans the precious little they know for long hours and ignores the tea cup Watson places at his elbow.
“Where do such men go?” asks Watson from his armchair.
“There are hidden places, clubs behind iron gates,” says Holmes, “but I doubt that our man frequents them. He came upon Harry Jenkins in the Islington Road, not in some sordid den of assignation.”
“We cannot know where he met the others since they are all dead.”
“Obviously not, Watson.” Holmes glares at the blackboard. “If I were him I would avoid sin and temptation. Why court disaster?”
“Why indeed? You almost disgraced yourself yesterday.” Watson jabs his finger at the blackboard. “Is this foul business not a better illustration than any I may give of where such behaviour may lead?”
“To madness and murder?” Holmes arches an elegant eyebrow. “Are those not the very things that the medical literature tells us result from losing one’s vital essence? Could I not go to any doctor in England and receive pills, treatment and devices to prevent such a thing?”
“Yes, but…” Watson rubs his temples. “I know the dangers and that the science is sound, but my commonsense tells me that it is wrong and harmful for a man to restrain himself until the desire becomes murderous.” He looks up at Holmes. “Or until his lust reaches such a fever pitch that he is ready to spend himself in the presence of others.”
“One of whom was giving an extremely detailed account of his sexual encounter, one by which you were not entirely unaffected.” Holmes laugh takes the acid out of his words. “It is hardly suitable for the readers of The Strand magazine, is it?”
Watson chuckles. “Many of your cases aren’t suitable for my reading public, but this one takes the biscuit.” His expression grows solemn again. “Take my advice, old fellow, when you go to bed tonight allow yourself to spend your seed. You will sleep afterwards and any ill-effects will have dissipated by morning. No good can come from restraining your natural impulses to the extent that you do.”
“What of my unnatural impulses?” asks Holmes quietly.
The Adam’s apple bobs nervously in Watson’s throat. “They must be controlled.”
“And how do I yield to one and not end by buggering young men in graveyards?”
“You must, Holmes. Oh, great heavens, this is such a wretched mess.” Watson’s sigh is heartfelt. “I would wish the world other than it is for your sake, but what can I do to help you?”
“Nothing that is in your nature,” replies Holmes sadly.
*
Holmes will despise himself afterwards, but he simply can’t stand it any longer. He is disgusted by his capitulation, by the way his hand moves frantically on his erection in the middle of the afternoon with his garments pulled down around his knees. Yet he can not think clearly through the fog of lust in his mind and the pain in his testicles. Sleep is broken and disturbed, and his prick bears many fresh scars from the jugum device. He has to let it emit. He just has to.
*
He is a black mood the next day, sulky and sullen on the sofa. “I took your advice,” he snaps when Watson persists in asking what ails him.
There is a silence pause. Then he hears Watson move about the room and a brandy tumbler swims into vision. “It should not make you so morose.” Watson puts the glass down on the walnut table. “Surely it was not an unpleasant experience?”
Holmes’ body remembers wave upon wave of intense contractions and a little shiver of forbidden pleasure runs through him, but his intellect rebels. “The pleasantness is nature’s trick, otherwise once humanity found a grounding of civilisation the human race would be doomed.”
Watson sighs heavily. “Can’t you just let yourself enjoy it?”
“No, I cannot.” Holmes rolls over to face Watson. “At the moment of emission there is nothing I want more than those spasms of ecstasy. Then is done, my prick is limp and my wasted semen is cold on my fingers. Lethargy grips me and all I want is to lie down and sleep. Even when I refuse to succumb to lassitude I am still drained and I cannot persuade my penis to rouse again for many hours.”
“Have you no sense of well-being or contentment?”
“None whatsoever. Don’t look so surprised. It is not my way to be beguiled by Mother Nature’s charms, although I do not doubt that I am as strange in that as I am in my affections.”
“It is unusual,” says Watson cautiously. “I always feel better afterwards.” He pats Holmes’ shoulder awkwardly. “Perhaps my suggestion was not appropriate for you.”
“Do not blame yourself, old fellow.” Holmes smiles ruefully. “I know that I must spend myself occasionally whether by accident or design, but my aim is to make such instances as rare as possible.” He hesitates. “If I ever had a helpmate I would not want a man who would trick or cajole me into an emission because he believed it was good for me.”
“I see.” Watson doesn’t look at Holmes. The fender is suddenly fascinating. “You find pleasure in denial, don’t you?” The question comes out in a rush.
“Oh, yes.” Holmes breathes out his confession in a long sigh.
*
The examination takes place that evening. Watson declares that Holmes’ heart is robust and that there is no evidence of pathological degeneration. His limbs are sound. A hawk would envy his eyesight, and when Watson inspects his penis it rises magnificently to the occasion.
*
There is a lull, soft as the early snow that falls in a white cloud in October and melts away in a night. Other cases snatch away their time, but Holmes and Watson are awaiting the next murder.
“Either he’s gone to earth,” says Watson one cold afternoon, “or he’s managed to control himself lately when he has been with his paramours.”
“Let us hope that it is the second.” Holmes flashes him a smile and holds his white hands out to the fire. “For if he has avoided emitting this past month then somewhere out there are young men who have encountered him and lived to tell the tale.”
“And how do you propose to find them? We were lucky with Jenkins, but I cannot see other fellows, with no knowledge of their narrow escape, confessing to such a crime.”
“Then it is we who must go to them.” Holmes marches over to his desk and scribbles a note. “Have Billy take this to Mrs Gundy’s tobacconists and leave it there for Wiggins.”
Watson looks horrified. “You can’t involve children in his, Holmes. It isn’t decent.”
“They are street children, Watson,” says Holmes gently, “and far from innocent. If I tell them that I seek a man who committed buggery with another in a churchyard they will snigger and giggle, but they will not misunderstand.” A gold coin flies into the air and Holmes catches it deftly in his left hand. “And they will be eager for a fine sovereign.”
So the word and the web are spread through the city.
*
The mansion is fifteen miles from Doncaster. Only the midnight strike of the clock over the gatehouse disturbs the silence. Most of the household is asleep. Holmes lies on a four-poster bed with one arm behind his head gently stroking his penis. His nightshirt is bundled up around his waist, but there is no chill in the fire warmed chamber.
Watson glances at him as he pads in from the bathroom. He seats himself on the edge of his own bed and rubs a towel over his hair. His gaze falls on the jugum penis ring on the bedside table. It gleams wickedly in the lamplight. “Is that thing really necessary?”
“It is.” Holmes rubs the base of his prick. “All other considerations aside I have no intention of leaving a trail on the sheets for the maids to gossip over. Oh, heavens…and you know long it is since I last spent myself.”
“It has been some time.” Watson coughs. “Perhaps you should allow me to induce an emission.”
“Not here.”
“When we return to Baker Street tomorrow?”
“Perhaps in a week or so.” Holmes gasps. “Oh, sweet God.”
“Do you really hope to last another week?” Watson asks gently.
Holmes groans. “I must.” His hips arch up off the bed and his hands clutch like talons on the eiderdown. “Oh, Watson, I want to emit!”
It takes several minutes and the application of a cold, wet cloth before his penis relaxes enough to allow Watson to fit the jugum ring onto him.
*
The bite of sharp metal teeth into Holmes’ swelling manhood wakes them four times in the night. In the glimmer of dawn Holmes kicks back the bedcovers and abandons sleep. Watson removes the ring from his prick and dabs at the little red tears with his handkerchief. He lowers his head to kiss the suddenly rigid shaft and Holmes’ groan bounces from wall to wall.
Holmes clutches his shoulder. “No,” he says. “Please, no.” But he does not resist when Watson takes him in his mouth.
*
The ice-ridden atmosphere continues after their return to Baker Street. Neither Watson’s apologies nor his appeals to commonsense will move Holmes.
“It was not what we agreed,” he snarls in a tempest of rage. “I trusted you to control my baser instincts when I could not master them myself.” Hurt shimmers in his eyes. “I pleaded with you, Watson.”
“You should not…this is not normal. It is compulsive, pathological, this fear of emission that you have.” Watson shakes his head wearily. “I could not bear to see you suffer, whether it was by your own choosing or not.”
Holmes relaxes a little. “You are a tender-hearted fool, my friend, and I know that you meant to do your best by me.” His gaze goes from the downcast Watson to the VR hammered in bullets into the lounge wall. “Victoria.”
“What?” Watson stares him blankly.
“If I ever say ‘Victoria’ to you when I am desperate to spend myself you have my permission to induce an emission, otherwise you will not do so no matter how much I beg for one. Is that agreed?”
“Yes, of course,” says Watson. He seems unable to believe that he is forgiven for his transgression.
“Give me your hand upon it,” commands Holmes and when Watson does he raises it to his red lips and kisses it tenderly.
*
He shook in his shoes was a phrase from a penny dreadful, but his poor clerk was shaking all over. It had taken whatever courage he had to come to 221B and Watson had to revive him with brandy and smelling salts before he could speak.
“Shall I go to prison?” is the first question that tumbles out of him.
“Not by our hand,” promises Holmes. “It is your companion who interests us, Mr Phillips.”
“I never met him before that night or since…what is it you want to know?” He looks from Holmes to Watson and back with bewildered, frightened eyes.
“Everything, you need not spare our blushes, we are men of the world,” says Holmes who has the jugum penis secure under his trousers in case of mishap.
“I’m not,” says the unhappy young man, “not really. But I am not fond of women and…I wasn’t looking for company. He approached me while I strolled in the park-”
“Which park?” demands Holmes.
“Battersea. He was refined and charming. We spoke of this and that, and he invited me to dine with him, at Allenby’s in the Battersea Park Road.” Phillips took a gulp of his brandy. “I won’t pretend that I didn’t understand the nature of his interest. So when he invited me to go with him to Norwood cemetery to lay flowers on his mother’s grave I…I agreed and…and we had connection there.”
“I’m afraid that I must press you for the details,” says Holmes with an encouraging smile. “It is vital to my investigation.”
By the time Mr Phillips has finished his account he is scarlet and stuttering with embarrassment. Watson is flushed to the roots of his hair and Holmes is sure that his penis is bleeding.
*
“Where do we go from here?” asks Watson when they are settled by the hearth.
“To Battersea Park.” Holmes shifts in his chair. Watson insisted on applying iodine to the half-moon cuts on his shaft and it still stings. “Or rather we must find a suitable decoy, since neither you nor I will suffice, even disguised I could not drop the number of years required to attract our quarry.”
Watson frowns. “Two questions, firstly is he likely to return to the same hunting ground again and who on earth would be suitable for this enticement?”
Holmes tilts his head on the chair back. “As to the second I shall ask among the irregulars. Don’t look so alarmed, I would not put a child in his path, but one of them is likely to know of a possible candidate. To answer your first question we can only hope that he lives or works thereabouts and that the park is therefore convenient for him.”
“All right. At least we have a clearer idea of what the man looks like now, so we shall know when and if we see him.” Watson smiles at Holmes. “How’s your penis?”
“Somewhat sore, but it would not be adverse to a little attention.” Holmes rests his hand on his trouser clad thigh. “It was altogether too taken with Mr Phillips’ tale of sodomy to lie quietly for long.” He places his hand over his crotch and squeezes. “Ah, that is delightful.”
Watson sets aside his glass. “Are you very hard, Holmes?”
“Oh, yes, the wretched organ seems to have forgotten that you induced an emission only nine days ago” Holmes squeezes himself again. “It feels as if I haven’t allowed it to spend its self for months.”
“You’ve teased yourself a great deal over this past week,” says Watson with a gleam in his eye. “It’s no wonder that your poor prick is rampant again.”
Holmes reaches for the buttons on his trousers. “Shall I show you exactly how aroused it is?”
*
He talks incessantly as he rubs his hard penis. “Oh, Watson, it’s extraordinary.” Holmes lifts his head from the pillow to smile at his companion. “It’s heaven, heaven in my prick.” He picks up speed, shudders out a moan and releases his organ to jerk unattended. “If only...” He fingers dance impatiently on his thigh before he reclaims his prize. “Ah, yes, such bliss, if only I could go on like this without it trying to emit every couple of minutes. Why won’t it just – Oh, damn…Why does it keep trying to…” Holmes stops and lies gasping on his bed.
“As you’ve said yourself it’s nature’s way of ensuring the continuation of the human race,” says Watson. “Just rest quietly for a short time before you resume.”
Holmes nods his dark head and closes his grey eyes. “It is such a compulsion, but we are not animals or savages to be governed by such imperatives.” He moves restlessly. “Oh lord, I want to touch myself.”
“Not yet, old fellow.” Watson smooths Holmes’ hair back off his brow and kisses the sweat dampened skin. “Give yourself a brief reprieve, otherwise you may emit accidently.”
“Lie down here beside me then.” Holmes moves to one side so that Watson can stretch out on the crumpled bed. Only the uneven tilter of breathing and the occasional murmur is heard in the quiet room. Then Holmes reaches down and wraps his hand around his prick. “I believe that it’s ready for another bout now.” He turns his head so that he looks into Watson’s eyes. “And what of your manhood, old friend?”
Watson blusters. “I’m not attracted to my own sex, as well you know, Holmes.”
“Yet you did not seem to be disgusted by Phillips’ story.” Holmes does not refer to the times Watson has caused him to emit with his hands and mouth. They are agreed, that is induction and for a medical purpose.
“It was the thought of congress that affected me. I…I have not been to the Borough of late.” Watson sits up and swings his legs to the floor. “In fact I think that I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you should,” says Holmes drily.
*
Watson took to visiting Madam Katherine’s on a weekly basis soon after that. Holmes made one knowing comment on the matter and then let it rest. The last thing he wanted to do was to alienate Watson. It was not only his physical attentions that he craved, he would sorely miss his affection and companionship were they to be estranged from one another.
Autumn descended into a greyness that threatened a long, dull winter and then a cold sun filled the sky as if in recompense for the early snow.
“Wilkins brought a young man here today,” Holmes tells Watson one evening. “He has neither height nor bearing, but he has the face of an angel fallen into Stepney and if our man is enamoured of youth and beauty this lad will do very well.”
“I take it that he knows what he must do?”
“I left him in no doubt as to the nature of his assignment.” Holmes sits Indian fashion on the sofa with his nightshirt pulled down over his knees. “So on Friday next – you will recall that most of the murders were committed upon a Friday- it is to Battersea Park with us all.”
Watson is discomforted for a moment. It is on Friday nights that he visits the brothel. “Very well, let’s hope that our fish bites.”
He does not, either the first Friday or the second. On both nights they wait until the October light has fallen into dusk. Then Holmes sends the lad, Erwin of the golden hair, away with a half-sovereign for his time and they retire to Baker Street.
*
There Holmes plays his violin for a while, soft and mournful, after which he dons his night attire and begins to play upon his prick instead. It reacts instantly to the dance of his fingers on its length and Holmes begins to caress it in earnest. Watson’s avid gaze adds to his excitement and he tugs harder on his proud erection. “Ah, heaven.” He rocks his hips in time with the movements of his hand. “Oh, yes, yes.” Holmes rides the crest of the sensation for as long as he dares before he lets go of his prick. “Ohhh...” He grins sheepishly at Watson. “Exquisite.”
“So I see,” says Watson with a rueful smile. “Hadn’t you better take care that it doesn’t become too exquisite though?”
“Oh, I shall.” Holmes slides down in his armchair with his long legs stretched out. “I’m not going to spend myself this evening.” He starts to rub his erection again. “I shall stop whenever an emission threatens. Ah…”
Watson is as red as a summer strawberry. “I didn’t know that you were going to do this tonight.” He squirms awkwardly on the sofa.
Holmes suppresses a smile and watches him through half-closed eyes. It was been five days since Watson’s last visit to the Borough and he has caught him unawares. He is certain that Watson has taken, dangerously and foolishly, to spending himself before each of these sessions in avoid embarrassment, but he has had no opportunity today. When Holmes thrusts into his fist the moan is unfeigned, but he loves the look it brings to Watson’s face.
“Good god.” Watson stumbles to his feet and totters on his bad leg for a second. “Let me, Holmes.”
Holmes draws in a deep breath. “I don’t want to have an emission.” Watson has only ever touched him to incite that singular reaction.
“Trust me,” pleads Watson and he sinks down on his gammy knee at Holmes’ feet. There is an unmistakable bulge in his trousers. “Please, I learnt my lesson in Doncaster.”
Holmes gives his assent as graciously as a king. Watson’s hand shakes at first, but he handles him as carefully as if he were a primed bomb.
*
The game is afoot. Edwin has lingered by the lake in the cold, crisp afternoon, throwing stale bread to greedy ducks, until a man appeared at his elbow. He matches the descriptions given by Jenkins and Phillips. Holmes and Watson keep well hidden among the evergreen rhododendrons.
“We have our man,” whispers Holmes. The suspect has done nothing yet. He is merely talking to Edwin, but there are a thousand little clues that make him certain of this quarry.
They wait and watch. A cigarette and a laugh are shared, a hand is laid on an arm and the two men move off together. Holmes and Watson follow at a discreet distance. They do not go to Allenby’s, but to a public house in Clapham, strong beer and black porter are downed, along with pies and peas. It will make for interesting stomach contents if Edwin dies, not that Holmes will permit that to happen.
Finally, the journey in the gathering of twilight out to Streatham Vale cemetery. There is a side gate that creaks unlocked when Edwin and the man pass through it. Under the gloom of ash and elm the man embraces Edwin, lusty kisses are exchanged and to Holmes’ shame his prick stirs.
Down into the depths of the dead and in the oldest, most tangle grown section of the cemetery the two men drag down their trousers and undergarments. Holmes’ penis rears up at the sight of male genitals and buttocks. It is anticipating what is to follow and he thinks that he ought to have listened to Watson and spent himself before he came out here.
Watson gives him a brief glance as they crouch in the undergrowth thirty yards from where the drama is being played out. If the man spoke clearly they would hear him, but he does not raise his voice above a murmur. Edwin is urged to bend and spread himself over an old tomb.
Holmes bits his lip as the man steps into position. To his surprise Watson reaches across and places his strong hand over his groin. Watson gives him a reassuring squeeze. Holmes doesn’t know whether that is more hindrance than help, but the pressure feels delightful. He places his hand over Watson’s and pushes them both firmly into his crotch.
“Look,” mouths Watson.
A pocket watch appears in the man’s hand and Holmes wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Instead he flips open his own watch with his left hand. The man cries out as he thrusts into Edwin. He is still for an instant before he begins to rut. One minute. Two. “Gentle Jesus, please…” the man whimpers. “Please.”
Watson squeezes Holmes’ prick through his trousers. Three minutes and then four. The man’s thrusts are quick and uncoordinated. He sobs each time his hips jerk forward.
“Don’t,” whispers Holmes. “Don’t emit.”
Five minutes. The man shudders. “Oh Lord, please help me!” He shakes, stops and plunges into Edwin twice more before he suddenly reels away. His erection jerks up against his stomach, hard and unsatisfied. He staggers into a dank wall where he stands mumbling to himself.
Edwin stands up and stares his shaking back in blank confusion. The man turns to him, kisses his brow, and sends the bewildered youth away.
Once he believes himself to be alone the man falls to his knees and clasps his hands in prayer. “Thank you, Lord, for preserving me from sin this night.”
Holmes and Watson exchange puzzled glances. Since he has just committed sodomy his prayers must refer to the act of murder or perhaps even to that of emission. Holmes leans into Watson’s hand, his prick hurts abominably, but this is neither the time nor the place. He grimaces; it is unusual for him to have to restrain himself when he would rather not.
The man crosses himself and stands up. His thick penis sways between his legs until he eases it back into his trousers. He walks away with an uneven gait and Holmes follows him.
*
They find the serial killer pruning the roses in his father’s garden.
“Mr Mayhew?” says Holmes and he blinks at them, owlish in the afternoon sun. Holmes steps closer and explains sotto-voice why they are here. Mayhew goes ashen, but he does not try to run. Instead he invites them into the front parlour, out of earshot of his invalid father. His spinster sister has gone shopping.
“We saw her leave,” says Holmes. “I thought that it might be better if this conversation took place in private.”
“I’m grateful for that,” replies Mayhew. His hands are shaking. “She is innocent and devout, and my ruination will come as a terrible shock to her.”
“I’m sure it will,” says Watson.
Holmes looks around the dusty and cramped room. There is little comfort or refinement here. For a moment he almost pities the miserable creature in front of him, but he does not quite believe in this mask of fear. “We will speak plainly, Mr Mayhew, we have discovered the bodies of six of your victims and since you may hang for one alone you might as well tell us if there are others yet to be discovered.”
Mayhew’s mouth works like a landed fish. “One more,” he whispers.
“Where may he be found?” asks Watson sharply.
Mayhew shakes his head and wraps his arms around himself. “I don’t remember. It was dark and there was an elm tree.” He looks beseechingly at Holmes. “He was a sinner. He tempted me. I gave my word, gentlemen, I made a holy vow, but Satan walks the earth in the guise of a beautiful young man.”
“You’re rambling,” snaps Holmes. The police are already on their way and he wants answers.
His ire has little effect on Mayhew. “I was lost, deep in sin, spilling my seed on the earth, disobeying the scriptures” A fanatical light gleams in his pale eyes. “Then an angel appeared and he told me that I was to be tested in God’s forge. That I would pass through fire, that my body would burn, but if kept my vow the gates of paradise would open before me.”
“He’s barking mad,” whispers Watson.
Holmes nods. He realises that he will get no sense from Mayhew, but curiosity and a doubtless misplaced sense of fellow-feeling make him persist. “Only you failed to keep your vow.”
“That was the devil’s work!” shouts Mayhew. He claws at his own shoulders and hunches in on himself. “When my companions were innocence my body didn’t betray me, but when Satan sent his agents to beguile me I couldn’t stop myself.” He looks wildly from one man to the other. “Don’t you understand that I couldn’t help it?”
“I understand,” says Holmes quietly.
Mayhew’s head jerks up and down. “I prayed for strength and guidance, for forgiveness for the sin of emission. And I sent the devil’s disciples back to hell!”
He goes on in a similar vein, incoherent and repetitive, until the police arrive to take him away in a straitjacket.
*
“Mayhew is a chameleon, cunning and contriving, but that does not mean that he is sane,” says Holmes.
“And there, but for the grace of God…” Watson smiles sadly. “I was sorrier for his poor father than for anyone else. He was utterly broken in court and I wager that he’ll be dead in six months.”
“Is it worse to have a son committed an asylum than to have one dance at the end of a rope?” Holmes presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Either way it’s finished with now.”
Watson pats him on the shoulder. “It’s proof, if any where ever needed, that there is danger in taking things to extremes.”
Holmes gives him a knowing smile. “Ah, a gentle warning from the good doctor, Mayhew’s case and mine do not compare. I have never claimed to be motivated by angels and nor was his desire to retain his essence at all costs the cause of his visions. Didn’t his unfortunate father state in court that he had always experienced visions and voices? It was another malady which beset him, one which I do not share.”
“The man was certainly deranged,” agrees Watson. He sits next to Holmes on the sofa. “What now, old man?”
“Oh, I will not change my practices if that is what you mean.” Holmes favours Watson with an affectionate glance. “One should not throw the baby out with the bathwater as they say. My intellect is the greatest gifts I have and I will not jeopardise it for a few fleeting moments of rapture.”
Watson smiles knowingly. “Besides which you get far too much pleasure from tormenting yourself.”
Holmes looks almost bashful for a moment. “Perhaps you know me too well, my Watson.”
“You admitted as much.”
A conspiratorial silence enfolds them. Later they dine together and after dinner Holmes plays his violin and smokes his pipe whilst Watson reads the newspapers. When Holmes draws his penis out Watson gives him a loving, exasperated smile and everything is as it should be between them.
*
Peace is fleeting. This year winter seems to be the season for crime and cases pile in one on another with barely time to draw breath between them. Watson complains that he cannot keep up with the chronicles of these cases. Nor does he always have the opportunity to visit the Borough and Holmes’ own bodily needs also have to go hang in the scramble to solve mystery after mystery.
Even Christmas is a mere blur of hasty celebration and it is mid-January before there is a lull. Watson proposes a holiday and Holmes surprises himself by readily agreeing to a gas-lit Sussex cottage.
*
The rows of books are dog-eared and the piano out of tune, but Holmes runs his fine fingers over it and coaxes a popular tune from it.
“I didn’t know you knew that one,” says Watson. It is a music hall favourite of his, but Holmes never attends the music hall.
Holmes smiles, secretive and well-pleased with himself.
They settle in easily enough. There is one bedroom with two old brass bedsteads and a view out over the huge walled garden. Holmes regrets that they didn’t come here in summer when he could have wandered half-naked through the grounds without freezing his equipment.
As it is he must content himself with stretching out on the old horse hair sofa while the afternoon rain drums on the parlour window. Watson is writing, a concentrated scribble with scattered pauses to bite at his pen. Holmes watches him as he plays lazily with himself. His penis is as stiff and demanding as it always is after days of denial, but he’s determined not to rush this.
“What’s another word for confrontation?” asks Watson without looking up from his notebook.
“Conflict, altercation, skirmish…Ah…”
“Altercation, thank you.” Watson smiles at him. “You’re going to have to take pity on your poor prick soon.”
“Not yet.” Holmes draws his right leg up. “This is too delightful.” He forces his eyes to stay open so that he can watch Watson watching him. He sees Watson’s lips start to frame a sentence and then he hesitates. “What is it, old friend?”
“Can you stop that, just for a moment? I want to talk to you, Holmes.”
He wouldn’t stop for anyone else at this point, but curiosity overcomes lust and Holmes sits up. His member bobs impatiently and he has to remind himself not to touch it. “What about?”
Watson looks embarrassed, although Holmes thought that they had passed that stage several months ago. “It concerns Mayhew actually, what he did – I don’t mean murder obviously – it intrigued you, didn’t it?”
Holmes’ penis judders. “The idea of having connection with someone without emitting? It must be torturous, but yes, I have often thought of it of late.”
“That’s what I supposed.” Watson glances at Holmes and quickly away. His face is ruddier than the firelight warrants. “I can’t... not even for you, sodomy is not…But if you would ever like to, perhaps, only if you would like to…to rub your member on me while I lay abed or insert it between my thighs or some such…”
Holmes immediate thought is that he will never manage to do that with Watson without emitting, not the first time anyway. “You would not find it objectionable?” He tries not to sound too eager, but his penis is already weeping with excitement.
“No, I wouldn’t have suggested it…” Watson finds the courage to meet his eye. “Would that be sufficient for you?”
“More than sufficient,” Holmes assures him.
*
Watson lies on his bed, a pale and solid sacrificial lamb, with a red erection. He has mumbled something about not having the opportunity for connection with a woman of late.
Holmes doesn’t debate the assertion. All his efforts are concentrated on not spending himself before he even gets on top of Watson. He crawls into position over Watson, who turns his to one side like a virgin bride. This is new territory for both of them. Holmes lowers himself onto his friend. His erection nudges the soft skin on Watson’s stomach and he wants to whimper. Watson reaches out blindly to grasp his upper arms and then to embrace him. There is a brush of stubble under Holmes’ cheek, but he does not dare to presume to kiss his beloved Watson.
He shifts and his needy prick nudges in between Watson’s upper thighs, under the firm, swollen curve of his testicles. Now Holmes does whimper and thrusts clumsily. He is not accustomed to this kind of love-making and the rhythm does not come easily at first. It is uneven and awkward, and his constantly jerking penis is both an encouragement and a distraction. Holmes thrusts again. And again, picking up speed as he does so. “Oh, dear god….”
Watson moans in his ear and lifts his hips to meet his uncertain plunges. “Holmes…”
“Oh…Ah…Ahhh…” Holmes knows that he can’t hold back. The question is can Watson? And the answer is no. In truth it is Watson’s quaking, grunting release that makes Holmes spend himself all over his muscular thighs.
They have both failed, but it is a glorious failure.
*
Watson does not think so. He is belligerent and tongue-tied the next day. “I’m not an invert,” is all he will say on the matter.
“I never suggested that you were,” Holmes smiles kindly. “It was a purely physical reaction to pressure on the penis. As a doctor you must be aware that such things occur, even under less intimate circumstances than our own.”
Watson grabs the lifeline and fakes belief. “I have always been a great admirer of the fair sex, but the opportunity has not presented its self lately.”
“And even when we return to London and you can visit Madam Katherine’s regularly you may still find that squeezing the penis between two moving bodies produces the same reaction.”
“Perhaps,” says Watson. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Holmes sees very well. Watson is not an invert because he refuses to think of himself as such.
*
Five weeks later. Watson’s bedroom at Baker Street. With one other failure behind him Holmes has resolved not to emit tonight, but his prick has other ideas. It stands rigid, tormented to the limits of its endurance and already oozing fluid before he slides down into Watson’s arms.
Holmes guides his prick into the hot, moist space beneath Watson’s balls. He gasps when Watson squeezes his thighs together, not knowing whether it is heaven or hell, only that he dare not thrust for fear of losing himself entirely. Ten minutes he said with foolish bravado and he regrets every aching second of it now. “I can’t…” His teeth latch onto Watson’s smooth shoulder. “I want to thrust.”
“Shush.” Watson strokes his back. “Just lie still.”
Holmes shakes with the effort of restraining the instinctive cant of his hips. There’s a thick congested feeling in his genitals. “I have to thrust.”
“Hush. You can’t, not yet.” Watson strokes his dark hair. “You’ll emit if you start thrusting so soon. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”
“I want to emit. I want to thrust.” Holmes’ pelvis jerks. “Please!”
“No.” Watson’s hand clamp onto his hips, restricting any further movement. “Now hold still.”
Holmes tries. He can feel everything magnified a thousand fold; the beat of Watson’s heart and his own, the warm fire-heated air on his naked body, the little quivers in Watson’s trapped penis and the persistent throbbing in his own. “Please, I’m close, so close…” He clutches Watson’s hand. “Oh god, don’t let me…”
“I won’t,” promises Watson.
“Please, I have to!” His body struggles to thrust. “Let me emit!”
“Shush,” whispers Watson. “Shush.”
Holmes moans. “Oh god, please let me emit, please let me. Ah, oh, please….” The word is right there, quivering on the tip of his tongue. Victoria. “I want to emit!” He hasn’t said it. He won’t say it. “I want to!!”
Holmes breaks free of Watson’s stranglehold on his hips, thrusts uncontrollably and rolls off him with a shuddering groan.
His prick whips up against his heaving stomach, desperately seeking the hot haven it has been denied. Creamy semen drips from it, but the contractions Holmes has braced himself for don’t overwhelm him. It is as near as he has ever been to ecstasy without spending his seed entirely.
Watson kisses his brow and face. He enfolds him in a tender embrace and when Holmes raises his head Watson kisses his lips. “You are very precious to me,” he says.
“And you to me.” Holmes returns his gentle kisses.
It is as close as they will ever get to saying ‘I love you’ and it is enough for both of them.