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I do not spend much time in my writing on my own personal affairs, possibly because they are so tightly and intricately tied up with those of Sherlock Holmes that they often do not signify. My medical career after the war was, to me, a means to an end: when I was actually practicing it supported me in the most basic financial way, so that I might spend as much time as possible assisting Holmes with his cases. After his death in 1891, I returned to medicine with the fervor of a man possessed, desperate to forget my misery and grief. It took quite some time for the work to distract me, but by Holmes's return three years later, I had built up quite a respectable little business and reputation.
When Holmes did return, and invited me to move back to Baker Street, I took him up on it without hesitation. Losing him had cost me what felt like one half of my very heart, and it was with great joy and great dreadful anticipation that I packed up my belongings and left my flat and my practice in Kensington. The fellow who purchased it— and a good deal of my patients— from me, turned out to be a relative of Holmes's and had, in fact, been financed by my friend as incentive to get me back, but at that point I was so glad to be truly home that I didn't bother to be indignant about it for long. Holmes was visibly relieved that I did not entertain any notion of having a row about it, and he readily agreed to my being allowed to see a few of my old patients in our flat at Baker Street at regular intervals.
I could not schedule the whims and moods of Sherlock Holmes, but after the disservice he did me of making believe he had thrown himself off a waterfall, he seemed eager to remain in my good graces. I began to see patients on Thursday afternoons, so long as we did not have a very pressing case on our hands, and Holmes would make himself scarce. Sometimes he would wander the streets and alleyways of London, reacquainting himself with the city after his long absence. Other times, he would leave in some ridiculous get-up and insist he was doing research for his work. Occasionally, he would simply vanish into his bedroom, or upstairs into the attic lumber room that contained his more obscure case files and references, and reappear the moment the door had closed behind my last patient of the evening. He almost always returned as soon as our agreed-upon hours were over, as if he couldn't stand to be away from Baker Street for long.
In the months that followed Holmes's miraculous and dramatic reappearance in the land of the living, the dynamic between us began to change. I had been so overwhelmed with relief and happiness in the beginning that I failed to notice it, but as the wonder faded and real life reasserted itself, I found that my feelings towards Holmes had changed.
No, that is not entirely true. I had been fascinated with Holmes for a very long time— since our first encounter in the lab at Bart's, indeed— and my feelings had always tended slightly towards the impure. I had kept them in check, but after his death I had allowed myself to wallow considerably in the tragic romance of emotion unshared. When he came back, I was well out of practice.
And Holmes, who before had struck me as entirely cool on the subject of romance or physical attraction or, indeed, love, had changed too. He was more affectionate, both physically and verbally, touching my arm and calling me "my dear man," or "my good fellow." He was no less prone to his black moods, but my presence seemed to shorten their severity and duration considerably. He accepted my offers for food and drink more often, and even agreed, in the slowly warming spring, to a short vacation to the seaside, where before he would have scoffed at the incredible boredom to be found in costal towns.
The balance between us had shifted, and there was nothing we could do to put it back to rights. We began our physical and, one might be allowed to say very quietly, romantic affair some six months after Holmes's return, and it would not be inaccurate for me to admit that it brought us both great relief. After our first, frenzied and desperate coupling against the sitting room door, we began to make use of both our bedrooms with a kind of shocking frequency and imagination for men of our ages. Then again, he had been gone a long time, and I had been in love with him for considerably longer.
My newfound hobby of participating in sodomy with Sherlock Holmes at regular intervals made a great difference in my quality of life, and I discovered a side of my friend I had not even begun to fathom. Although while I had known him he had not indulged in this particular vice, he was no virgin, and once he found how widely my interests varied he began to suggest we try things I blush to even think about. Suffice it to say that Holmes has inserted a number of inanimate objects into my person, not all of them medically advisable, which is only the tip of the iceberg.
This expanded experience, however, did not warn me of what would happen on one particular Thursday in June, more than a year after Holmes's return. It was growing towards evening, the sky still light as we approached the year's longest day, and I had just shown out my last patient: an elderly gentleman from Cavendish Street who I had been seeing for some time with regard to his gout. I was expecting Holmes any minute, and I always desired to be alone upon his return. His kisses after a separation of this ilk were often all-consuming.
I was in the sitting room, clearing away my examination table and tidying up when Mrs Hudson knocked at the sitting room door.
"Doctor," she said tentatively, "there is a young lady downstairs who is very anxious to see you."
"Mr Holmes should be home very soon," I said, somewhat disappointed. "She's welcome to wait in the sitting room; just give me a moment—"
"No, no," Mrs Hudson said, and handed me the young woman's card. "It is you she desires to see, not Mr Holmes, and I believe it is a medical matter."
I frowned at the card. It only had the young woman's name on it, Violetta McDaniel, and I remembered Holmes saying something about a person who does not include their address— I wasn't sure what to make of it. She might be a woman of ill repute. She might be a woman in need of help.
I put the card down on the sideboard and said, "Very well, see her up."
Mrs Hudson disappeared, and a few moments later, as I draped the sheet over the examination table once more, Miss McDaniel mounted the stair. I ushered her into the sitting room. She was quite tall and slim, with high cheekbones and striking grey eyes, and her dark hair was piled fashionably high atop her head. She was certainly no Whitechapel whore; this was a woman of distinction. She wore no ring on her finger, but she had to be at least thirty. Mrs Hudson had been generous in calling her a young lady.
"Thank you so much, Doctor Watson," she said in a soft, melodious voice, "for agreeing to see me. I know you do not often take new patients, but I have a particular matter which…" She blushed furiously, and I colored in return, uncertain of the reason.
"Please, sit down," I said, offering her my armchair. "Don't be embarrassed, my dear; I am a professional, and I have heard it all."
Miss McDaniel sat down delicately on the edge of the chair, looking around the sitting room nervously. She twisted her handkerchief between her gloved hands, and I wanted to reach out to her. She was obviously distressed, at war with herself about how much to reveal. I worried suddenly that she might be pregnant, and that she was calling upon me in the misguided hope that I would help her remedy the situation.
"I have a matter," she said again, "which I believe you may be able to attend to."
"Describe your symptoms," I said, glancing at the clock and taking out my notebook. "Leave nothing out." Holmes was due home any minute, and I didn't know what he would say to my still having a patient occupying our shared space.
"I have been finding recently," she said, "that I become short of breath very rapidly, without cause. I am not sleeping well, kept awake by—" again she blushed— "wild thoughts. I feel a trembling in my limbs, and I have almost entirely lost my appetite."
I wrote everything down, frowning at my page. It was a wide array of symptoms, and in such a healthy-looking woman I wasn't sure of its immediate cause. I glanced back up at her, my eyebrows raised, willing her to elaborate.
"And occasionally," she said, more softly, looking down at her lap, "I find myself distracted, daydreaming, but when I am interrupted I am filled with shame and I don't know why— oh, help me, Doctor, it's quite unbearable!"
I paused. Something about the way she had said "unbearable" struck a chord inside me. I narrowed my eyes, looking her up and down carefully: at her slim hands, covered by the gloves; at her throat, partly hidden by her high collar; at the line of her jaw, disguised slightly by the soft curls of her hair that were draped artfully along her cheeks. I looked again into her silvery eyes, sparkling with barely restrained tears.
Holmes.
Good God.
I kept my expression carefully neutral, but Holmes knew instantly that I had spotted him. His lips quirked slightly, the barest twitch giving him away.
I cleared my throat twice before I was able to speak again. My heart was thundering against my ribcage, and my face must have been bright red. I was incredulous, incensed, and now hot with lust. The man was utterly mad. I was so taken by him I could barely think.
"Well," I said finally, "Miss McDaniel," and Holmes's eyes gleamed with delight. "The symptoms you describe are not uncommon. In fact, many women suffer from these same symptoms, and the relief of them is quite simple and painless."
"Oh, Doctor," Holmes said, the tone of his voice perfect for a grateful woman of thirty, "you don't know how much it pleases me to hear that."
I smiled and put aside my notebook. "If you wouldn't mind, please come recline on my examination table," I said. "I shall need you to undo your bodice, so that I may listen to your heart and lungs."
"Of course," Holmes said, standing again. Now that I knew it was him, I could appreciate his get-up more fully. The gown he wore was a deep, shimmering emerald, and it fell almost to the floor, ending above black boots with rows of delicate buttons. He wore his collar high and his sleeves a puffed at the shoulder, as I saw on many a fashionable lady in High Street. His broad shoulders were softened by this effect, and his narrow waist was accentuated by the cut of his skirt. I offered him my hand as we crossed the room, and he took it in his gloved one and gave me a little squeeze.
I was surprised I still had blood enough in my body for an erection, so much of it was in my cheeks. Nevertheless, my prick was stiffening rapidly, and once I had installed Holmes near the examination table I crossed the room again to lock the door to the landing.
He said nothing, only smiled demurely as I approached once more. He took my hand and I helped him to sit upon the edge of the table. It was a narrow piece of furniture, padded, with leather upholstery, and it folded up at one end to support the patient's head and back, if the physician desired them to recline rather than lay down outright. I raised this end and helped Holmes to lay back against it. He let out a delicate sigh as he relaxed, and my now-entirely-hard prick throbbed.
"Now," I said, scrambling to recover my professional demeanor— I very much wanted to indulge Holmes in this game, and I wouldn't ruin it by salivating overly much— "if you would be so kind as to undo your bodice; I must be able to hear your heart." I fished my stethoscope out of my medical bag on the nearby table, and held my breath as Holmes unbuttoned the line of tiny buttons down the front of his gown.
Under the bodice was a corset, tightly laced, and under that a white chemise. Holmes had not spared a bit of theatrics for me. The corset pushed Holmes's pectorals upwards, creating the illusion of breasts, and I dared to reach out and run the tip of my finger along the top of this swell.
"Oh, Doctor," Holmes breathed, "I fear a fit is coming on now. I am faint."
"Not to worry," I said, pulling my hand away and inserting the stethoscope's ear tubes into my ears. "If I can observe the fit as it happens, I will have a much surer diagnosis for you. Relax."
Holmes's breathing was rapid as I placed the bell against his chest, above the corset and on top of the chemise. The fabric created a light rustling that distracted me from any true sounds of his breathing, so I pulled away.
"Madame," I said, and Holmes almost smiled again, "I'm afraid I cannot hear your heart or lungs well at all with this in the way. Would you be so kind as to remove it?"
"Certainly, Doctor," Holmes said. "You must help me, though; I cannot undo my corset without assistance."
"Of course," I said. The corset he wore had tiny silver links down the front. I began to unfasten them one by one, and Holmes let out a tiny sigh. I was close enough to him now that I could see the way his pupils were dilated, the light sheen of perspiration on his face, the color high in his normally pale cheeks. He was as aroused by this as I was— and still he persisted in the act. Perhaps, no, certainly, that was part of it.
Once the corset was loosened, the chemise could be pushed aside with ease, and I slipped the bell of my stethoscope down the front. I listened carefully to Holmes's heart, beating double-time, and it was comforting to hear its regular rhythm, healthy and strong. I listened perhaps longer than necessary, memorizing the rhythm, because presently it began to slow, and Holmes touched my wrist.
"Doctor," he said, looking into my eyes. "Is everything all right?"
"It is as expected," I said softly. Barely a year ago, he had been entirely gone from my life, and I had never thought I would get to hear or feel so important a beat again. He squeezed my wrist and smiled, and I smiled back, the wickedness of our game returning to me. I recomposed my face and moved the stethoscope bell around, listening to the deep, clear, whooshing sound of his breathing, slower now than before. I wondered if I should listen to his back as well to be more medically accurate, but decided that was unnecessary. The stiffness of my prick in my trousers had something to do with that decision.
Auscultation complete, I removed and coiled up the stethoscope, and put it aside.
"Now," I said, "Miss McDaniel, it is my professional opinion that you are afflicted with a well-documented malady known as hysteria."
Holmes gasped, as if this was not something he had expected to hear. "Is it very serious?" he asked, placing a gloved hand on his now-heaving bosom.
"It is not," I assured him. "The relief of symptoms is quite simple, as I said. Some simple manual manipulation, perhaps some light vibration if the condition persists, and you will be back to feeling like yourself in no time at all."
"I am so glad to hear that," Holmes said. "Please, Doctor, alleviate my symptoms now!"
"As you wish." I smirked at him, unable to help myself. He really was a perfect actor, and so rarely did I find myself the subject of his craft. But there was a recognizable flavor of his true self in there, leading me along the path. "Please, lay back again, and I will need to lift your skirts." If this had been a proper examination, I would drape a heavy cloth over the lady's lap and perform my manipulation blind, as befits a male doctor and a female patient. However, considering the unusual situation, I decided a little indiscretion would be worth the inaccuracy.
"Yes, Doctor." Holmes reclined once more, and I pushed his skirt and petticoat up to his knees. He was wearing silk bloomers over stockings, and I found the hem of his chemise as well. It was considerably more clothing than I had expected, and it had been a long time since I'd undressed a woman. Holmes began to help, pulling up his skirts and chemise, and I was left staring at the bulge of his erection behind the flimsy ties of the bloomers.
I swallowed hard. I had seen him naked in a dozen outrageous positions, as well as early in the morning or late at night as we dressed or undressed together. There was something about his cock tenting a pair of silk ladies' undergarments that made me want to tear it all off of him and have my way with him right there on the table.
Fortunately, I restrained myself, and sat down on the stool at the end of the table. Holmes watched me with a fixed gaze as I untied his bloomers, and he let out a small sigh when his cock sprang free. The fabric of the drawers were damp with his excitement. My mouth watered for him. Holmes tipped his head back against the padded table, and I took him gently in my hand.
"Yes," I said, "I can see the signs of the hysteria clearly. You are much afflicted, I fear."
He muffled a snort that might have been laughter into his handkerchief. After a moment, he said, "I am feeling better already."
"I shall just pull down your drawers a little more," I said. "I assure you, the treatment will take no time at all."
"Oh, Doctor," Holmes sighed, "I find I do not mind the treatment; pray, let it take a while."
I grinned at him over his raised knees. "I will be very thorough," I promised. Without taking my eyes from him, I fumbled in my medical bag for a pot of petroleum jelly. It was used more often than it should have been for our carnal encounters, and it was already half gone. I always dreaded, when I bought more at the chemist, that someone would question why I went through it so quickly.
Holmes started at the cold, slick touch of my fingers, and then eagerly spread his legs wide as I pressed against his entrance. His cock twitched in my hand, and his body yielded to my intrusion. He was hot and tight inside, his arse gripping my first two fingers, and his breath stuttered in his chest. I pushed my fingers deep, reaching for the place inside him that could make him shout.
At the first touch, he only quivered, his patent leather heels skidding on the leather of my table. I began to stroke him within, rubbing the spot gently, and echoed my movements outside as well. His prick, slippery already, slid easily through my fist. He began to rock into the motion of my hands, pushing first up into my grip and then back onto my penetrating fingers. My cock throbbed in my trousers, trapped. I fucked Holmes for a few long minutes with my two fingers, my thumb against his perineum, while he gasped and moaned softly. His bollocks were full and heavy, and as I frigged him they began to tighten, promising a crisis.
"Oh, God," he said finally, "you must go faster."
I obliged him, keeping my eyes on my task. His prick was fat and flushed in my hand, slick, clear pre-ejaculate leaking copiously from its winking slit. His lithe thighs trembled and flexed as he worked himself on my fingers. I paused for a moment, pulling out to add a third finger, and his moan of disappointment shot through me like lightning, only to be replaced quickly by a low groan of satisfaction.
"Hush," I whispered, "You mustn't—"
"I know," Holmes said, in his own voice suddenly, low and familiar and beloved, "I know, dear God, do I know. Don't stop."
I shook my head; I wouldn't stop for anything. I wanted to suck him, to take him in my mouth and taste his rapture. I licked my suddenly dry lips.
Miss McDaniel interrupted my brief fantasy, begging, "Oh, do it, Doctor, please do it. Please."
I didn't bother to wonder how he knew what I was thinking. I bent my head and licked hungrily at the wet crown of his cock, and then slipped it between my lips. He arched his back, pushing himself deeper, and I swallowed him down until my mouth bumped against my restraining hand. I began to move up and down, working him in and out, the thick salt taste of him filling me with excitement.
"Fuck," Holmes said, his hands finally coming to rest on my head, caressing my neck, my shoulders, "oh fuck, that's gorgeous."
I pulled away to say, "You're ruining the illusion."
"And you're ruining the game," he returned, pressing firmly on the top of my head to direct me back to my task. "The illusion was gone long before you put your hands up a lady's skirt to find a cock, my dear boy."
I laughed, despite myself, and bent once more. My fingers still moved within him, and I could feel the inexorable tensing of his inner muscles that signaled his impending orgasm. More obvious was the shallow nature of his breathing, the uncontrollable little noises he made, and the way his fingers tightened in my hair.
"John," he said suddenly, in warning, and I felt him swell in my mouth. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, going rigid all over, and then he burst, filling my mouth with his seed, his body arching with pleasure. I held on tight, my eyes watering, my pulse pounding, and my prick stiff and unsatisfied between my legs. He shuddered from head to toe, hips almost leaving the leather table, and then he fell back, boneless, with a great sigh.
I swallowed and pulled my fingers out and my mouth away, and he untwined his fingers carefully from my hair. Then he pulled me up by my collar until I was nearly climbing the table, to kiss me hungrily, licking the taste of himself from my tongue. I moaned, grinding my neglected cock against the padded table. Holmes sat up, fumbling for my trousers, and pulled it out. He began to frig me rapidly, and returned to devouring me with his kisses as he did so. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling his whole body down the table to me and trapping his hand between us. He continued apace, valiantly working in the tight space, and I clutched him to me, fisting my hands in his voluminous skirts.
I tore myself away from the kiss to gasp, "Now, oh, now," and he shoved his handkerchief between us. The wave of pleasure overwhelmed me, coalescing in my groin and resulting in a few hard jerks of my hips as I came.
"Doctor," Holmes said, affecting the voice of his disguise once more, "I feel ever so much better."
"Oh, stop," I panted against his perfumed neck. "You're a madman."
He laughed as we untangled ourselves. I fastened my trousers back up, and he lay his skirts down over his knees again. Unable to stand any longer, I sat down on my examination stool. Holmes reached up and pulled the wig carefully from his head. His hair beneath it was flattened and damp with sweat. He ran a hand through it, making it stick up, and grinned at me.
"Well, perhaps," he said, "but I notice you didn't turn this madman down."
"What am I to tell Mrs Hudson when she finds you are already here, and that my patient never left."
"You shall tell her I have played a cruel joke on you, and change the subject." Holmes slid off the table with a rustle of tulle and silk, and turned his back to me. "Help me with this blasted thing, will you?"
I stood again and began to unlace his corset. "How did you get it on in the first place?" I asked.
"You are not the only person in London accustomed to seeing me in a disguise," he said, and sighed with relief when the corset finally fell open on its own. "Lord, I thought I was going to die coming up those stairs. I really did feel faint."
"These contraptions are terrible for the health," I said, unable to help myself. "I try to advise my true patients to avoid them at all costs."
"I'll take that into consideration," Holmes said, pulling the bodice of the dress off his shoulders and turning back to face me. I ran an appreciative hand down his bare chest, which he caught and lifted to his mouth to lay a kiss in the middle of my palm. "But now, I'll trade my frock for a shirt and coat, and we shall go to dinner, what do you say?"
"I don't know," I said slowly. "Why trade at all?"
Holmes paused, his eyes narrowing, and then he began to smile. "Yes," he said, "why indeed?"