Elementary Erotica
edited by J. Blackmore
Published by
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Elementary Erotica
Edited by J. Blackmore
Copyright © 2011 Circlet Press Inc.
Smashwords Edition
Circlet Press, Inc.
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Table of Contents
The Prophet's Eye by Aoife Bright
The Hysteria Machine by Louise Blaydon
The Adventure of the Green Zeppelin by Elinor Gray
Upon the Use of Electrical Vibration in the Treatment of Hysterics by Violet Vernet
Songs Without Words by Peter Tupper
Introduction
When my play-tester sent the manuscript for this book back to me (yes, you'll be pleased to know that all of my books are tested for their effect on both grey matter and erectile tissue), he included a note that simply said, "This might be your best collection yet." I love all my babies equally, but there's just something about this group. I was surprised by the overwhelming response I got when I requested erotic stories about Sherlock Holmes. Holmes's apparent distaste for women and seeming lack of interest in sex make him an unlikely hero for an erotic story, but each of these authors found their own unique way of dealing with this problem.
The backdrop of Victorian England is one filled with tension and danger for homosexual men. This was a time and a place where it was illegal to be gay, plain and simple. We'd do well to remember that Holmes was not always a devotee of the law. He solved mysteries for the sake of the mystery itself and, on more than one occasion, stood in the way of due process when he felt that mercy was more appropriate than justice.
"The Prophet's Eye" by Aoife Bright is a mystery, but it's also a story of outcasts banding together: queer men, prostitutes, nuns. It encompasses all the problems of Victorian society, with some interesting innovations and alternative history. Here we see Holmes and Watson as lovers, forced to conceal what they are from society. It's a theme that is threaded through all these stories, and it seems as good a reason as any for Watson's insistence that Holmes was completely asexual. This story is haunting, not only for its subject matter, but also for its portrayal of Holmes as deeply sexual: lust and carnal intention fueled by white-hot intellect. There are few who could stand up to so potent a force. I don't think I would want to meet any of them.
Of course, even in a society as rigid as Victorian England, there are always ways to satisfy intense, and therefore troubling, desires. Around this time in history, the vibrator made its first appearance as a way of providing relief to nervous ladies. For this reason, the vibrator shows up a lot in steampunk erotica. This is a genre in its adolescence, but if it has anything like established tropes, this is surely one of them. For this reason, I often avoid stories featuring them, but this time two stories made it past me, and for very good reasons.
The first of these is Louise Blaydon's "The Hysteria Machine." This story genuinely surprised me. I remember being startled into a flush when I first read it and, dear reader, that is certainly saying something. With the impish opening line, "The thing began, as affairs in our rooms so frequently did, with a minor mystery," Blaydon's Watson ushers us through his own journey of fear, discovery, and abandonment, as precipitated by Sherlock Holmes. Without giving anything away, I will say that it is not all that surprising that Holmes would approach a problem in this way, but the result is still rather, well, stimulating.
Holmes is, after all, famous for his ingenuity, and his need for intellectual stimulation. How does he occupy himself when a mystery is solved too quickly? In "The Adventure of the Green Zeppelin," by Elinor Gray, we are given a glimpse of what might be going on in the back of Holmes's mind while he works on his cases. It seems only logical that he would have many varying ideas on the go, and Watson, as his friend (and lover) could often benefit from his inspirations. He certainly does here. And really, who hasn't thought of high-flying sex when gazing upon a zeppelin?
The artifacts and tropes of steampunk are certainly sexually inspiring; but I have a confession to make about "Research" by Kate Lear. This story found its way into this collection before I realized that it wasn't really steampunk. Yes, that's how hot it is. So, while "Research" does not offer clockwork or steam-powered contraptions, what it does provide is a sympathetic and believable study of Holmes, focusing on his pride, his control issues, and Watson's ability to thwart these things to make it to the heart of the man. In the end, there is nothing lacking in Lear's work.
In the second of our vibrator tales, "Upon the Use of Electrical Vibration in the Treatment of Hysterics," Violet Vernet channels the classics of Victorian smut, with their heady combination of flowery language and detailed, coarse description. The reader is sure to both smile and gasp at the erotic adventures of Holmes and Watson, and the electronic appliance known as The Rejuvenator. Make no mistake, however: while Vernet's work hearkens back to the age of The Pearl and The Oyster, it has an honesty and emotional sensuality that the Victorian stories often lacked. And her wit and humor is not to be missed.
Every once in a while I'll get a story from an author that makes me deeply suspicious of the internet. By this I mean, I will have received a story that seems written just for me, and I will suddenly wonder if there is a dossier of my tastes floating around online somewhere. Cornelia Grey was the object of my fears in this anthology, because her story, "Emet," pushed all my nerd buttons. It has steampunk and golems and jealousy and hot man sex: more than enough to merit inclusion here. Steampunk with supernatural elements is not something I usually enjoy, but this story convinced me to reconsider. Here are Holmes and Watson, firmly, if uneasily, established as a couple. Through this, and a series of grisly murders, we are given a study of Holmes's fragility and reliance on Watson which is both stark and searing. Holmes, paradoxically, becomes even more appealing in this light.
To continue this theme, and keep you pleasantly off-balance, we finish up with a bit of gratuitous and flagrant heterosexuality. I know, I know: Holmes is a misogynist. But, perhaps you have forgotten The Woman. Irene Adler is a tiny part of Holmes canon, but her character has been writ large in the imaginations of her fans, and perhaps in Holmes's own mind as well. Peter Tupper continues our exploration of the flawed Sherlock Holmes with a portrait of him as alien, broken, and unsanitized by Watson's well-meaning memoirs. "Songs Without Words" is heartbreaking, with a stark, sardonic sexuality that is honest to the point of indecency, and disturbingly empathetic. And, to top it all off, we're given a ridiculously plausible explanation for Holmes's love of, and talent for, disguises.
I've been a fan of Sherlock Holmes since my childhood, and putting this collection together was a real thrill for me. The creativity and art of the seven writers featured here made me happy I had given them the opportunity to publish their work. I hope you will get as much joy out of this collection as I did.
J. Blackmore
Toronto, ON
October 2010
The Prophet's Eye
Aoife Bright
The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me; my eye and God's eye are one eye, one seeing, one knowing, one love.
--Meister Eckhart von Hochheim
The body had been pulled from the river early that morning. In the damp, grey hours just before dawn, a weary night constable and a drunkard had tripped over just the same loose cobble at just the same time and taken a tumble into the Thames. The constable, conscious of his duty, had grabbed hold of the drunkard. The drunkard, conscious of little but the likelihood of getting the dirtiest water in London in his lungs, grabbed hold of the first thing that came to hand--another hand, covered in grime and silt and puffy from submersion. In panic he kept hold of it, even after the constable had at last pulled both drunk and dead from the river. There he collapsed in tears and rocked back and forth on his knees, muttering parts of the Lord's Prayer under his breath, clutching at a dead man's hand until it was pried from his fingers.
The night constable's name was James Dawson, of the City Police, and only a few moments before he had been eagerly anticipating the comfort of his own bed, tucked safely away in a small house in Bishopsgate. Normally, the discovery of a dead body in this part of the river would not have interfered with those plans, as it was hardly uncommon for thieves and smugglers to drown in the process of stealing from the ships that moored along the Thames. One more dead thief was something Dawson could ignore, or at the very least wait to report until later on in the morning.
No, the problem here was who the dead man was. His face was bloated, pasty white, and blotched with mud, but it was still a face seen every day by most of the city, glaring out at the populace of London from the pages of newspapers and broadside treatises. There was no reason for him to be floating in the Thames in the middle of the night. No, that wasn't right–clearly there was a reason, and probably a logical one, but having had less than five minutes to consider the matter, Dawson really had no idea what it might be.
The drunk was still blubbering. Dawson took hold of his shoulder and yanked him to his feet. "Pull yourself together, man! Surely you've a home to get to? I'll need your name and address." The man would be in no fit state to answer questions yet, and it was all a formality anyway–hadn't they just witnessed the exact same thing?
"But–isn't that?" The man looked up at him, dark circles ringing his wide, reddened eyes. "I found him, I touched him," he babbled, wringing his hands. "I'm going to hell, you know I am, that's the end of it!"
"If that's the case," Dawson said, "it's got more to do with what you were drinking. It's them that killed him what's going to hell, if there even is such a thing. Name and address!" The man slurred it at him and staggered off toward Cheapside, still sniffling and muttering to himself.
All this was how James Dawson found himself trudging toward Scotland Yard a little after six in the morning, as streetlamps guttered on the pavement and a dim, lazy sun made a half-hearted attempt to filter through the thick morning fog. Above the rooftops hovered the great dirigible Victoria, its silvery hull rendered a mottled, smoky grey, its cool shadow already spreading over the street. Outside the City, the rest of London was already awake and moving, as the vagrants and criminals who ruled the night scuttled back into their hiding places and the citizenry emerged. The scents of manure and animals and unwashed human bodies mixed with that of baking bread and smoke; it was all the smell of London and Dawson no longer noticed it.
He knocked firmly on the door to announce his arrival. It swung open a moment later and the porter, a gaunt old gentleman in a dark suit, glanced him over and let him in without a word. He made his way up a flight of stairs that creaked, though not ominously, beneath his weight, and upon coming to the top he followed a long corridor, dim in the flickering gaslight of the lamps lining the walls, until he came to the single doorway showing any sign of occupancy and bearing a sign reading Police Inspector G. Lestrade. He knocked, but had barely time to straighten his collar before a voice as weary as his own called out, "Come in, then."
Dawson did so. The office was clean but cluttered; but then, this building was still nearly new. Papers and boxes were scattered about, pinned to the walls, or stacked upon a large wooden desk behind which sat a lean, pointy-faced man with streaks of grey in his dark hair and shadows under his eyes that did not only come from the light.
"Dawson, isn't it?" the man said, scarcely looking up. "Come in, constable. I'm sure you've had a long night. Let's get this over with. Cup of tea?"
Dawson stood stiffly just inside the door, arms straight at his sides. "Yes, sir. Inspector. And no thank you, sir."
Lestrade nodded, still not looking up. "Inspector of the City Police said you found a body," he said, with no more preamble than that. "I doubt he'd be sending a pigeon before breakfast-time if it were just any old body, so let's have it."
Dawson thought perhaps he should have agreed to that tea, if only to have something to do with his hands. "No indeed, sir. The body--it's the Bishop of Guildford, sir."
The Inspector, Dawson thought, did not look quite so surprised as perhaps he should have. He looked up at last, and there was something intense and curious in his dark eyes that reminded the constable momentarily of a rat. "Guildford? Really. How was he killed? How long had he been dead? You're sure he didn't just slip and fall into the river?"
Dawson took a sudden step back, without thinking, and the doorframe dug into his back. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know any of that. He'd been in the water too long to tell by looking--he was a right mess, sir. But the body's been taken to the Sisters, so they'll know soon enough."
Lestrade looked unimpressed, and Dawson stood ramrod-straight and tried not to think about how much he wanted to be at home, sleeping in his own soft bed or listening to pretty Jenny, his wife of little more than a week, busy about the kitchen. He was a good policeman and devoted to his duty, but the City Police just did not normally deal with things like stumbling on the body of the richest, and arguably most influential, moralizer in the British Empire.
After a moment of staring at him so hard it made him sweat, Lestrade nodded. "Go home and get some rest, constable," he said, as if reading Dawson's thoughts. "I've got a man to take care of the autopsy. I'll send a boy when you're needed again--this afternoon, most likely."
He turned away, and Dawson took this as a dismissal. Exhausted and relieved, he made his way home.
* * * *
"It was," Holmes declared loftily, "only a matter of time before someone killed him."
Watson glanced up and across the room from where he crouched over a table, poking about a dead man's body. "You're not supposed to be sympathetic to murderers, Holmes," he said dryly.
"I don't see why not." There was something petulant about Holmes this morning that Watson couldn't quite place. With another man he might have expected it to be the result of interrupted breakfast and foregone morning tryst, but for Holmes, a new and exciting case was normally enough to make him forget both those things. "Solving a murder has nothing to do with my personal feelings on it," he continued. He had been in his dressing-gown when the messenger had called at 221b Baker Street, midway through the action of smearing marmalade onto his toast. He was so meticulous about even that; Watson enjoyed ribbing him for it as much as he enjoyed interrupting it.
"Oh no," he agreed dryly. "Not you. You'd have to have personal feelings before they could affect anything. Here, then--come look at this, if you like."
Holmes swept toward him, peering interestedly at the corpse. "What have you discovered?"
"Well," Watson said calmly, "I had noticed that he's only got one eye."
It was meant as a joke, though Holmes kept that intent look as if he were taking it all very seriously; Watson expected he was. The Bishop of Guildford had been a large man in life, both in height and circumference. He would stand at the corner in Hyde Park, his great bulk mostly concealed under a long overcoat, and preach fire and brimstone at everyone who passed. He shouted the Old Testament while his followers, usually modest young ladies with their coats buttoned to their chins, passed out broadsides. He claimed his clockwork eye gave him the power to see sin, and a significant portion of London believed him. His singular appearance had made him easily recognizable, and a favorite object of caricatures and political cartoons, so that there was probably not a soul in England who would not have recognized him on sight.
"I do want to have a look at that eye," Holmes was saying, not at all unexpectedly. "What else?"
"It looked at first as if he'd been killed by being hit on the head," Watson continued. "But I think that might have happened afterward. Look at the marks on his throat, here and here--it looks as though he was strangled. And this almost looks like a cross--I suppose he would have been wearing one, when he died." His gloved fingers hovered above the swollen, pasty skin of the dead bishop's throat, where the greyish pale was slashed by two thin lines of darker bruising. Holmes had his eye-glass out, nudging Watson out of the way and leaning close over the body to get a better look at the marks. He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing it at the skin. He would be taking samples of skin and blood, looking for traces of dust or fabric or anything he could find, and Watson knew better by now than to protest.
"Fascinating," Holmes murmured, and then Watson knew he was no longer necessary to the deductive process, never mind this was still officially his autopsy. Holmes had returned to the clockwork eye, investigating the mechanics of it, utterly oblivious to both the stench of chemicals and death rising from the corpse, and the potential ethical dilemma that should arise from desecrating even the inorganic parts of the deceased with a screwdriver. But that is exactly what he was doing, poking and nudging and prying, until Watson heard a metallic grating and a strange little hiss of air, and Holmes said, in some surprise, "Watson! Part of this mechanism is missing!"
"I assume," Watson said, re-joining him at the side of the table, "that you mean it was missing before you started poking at it."
"Of course I do," Holmes said testily. "Look, Watson, here. This lens in the front remains static, but the one behind it rotates--what a strange contraption, very impressive. This wire seems to attach where his actual eye should be--"
"Get on with it." Watson was not a squeamish man and had, in the line of his work, seen a good many gruesome things, but even he had trouble summoning enthusiasm for a good view of the inside of a waterlogged body's eye socket.
Holmes heaved a long, exasperated sigh. "I was merely explaining, Watson, that the medical significance of an invention that can replace actual vision should not be overlooked. Also that there are two small hinges with nothing attached to them, at the edge of this little panel... here!" With a final tiny snap a small round gear came free, and he lifted away a round gold panel like the cover of a pocket watch. Both men bent their heads to peer at it more closely. The metal was hammered smooth, and had been attached to the gearing by a pin. "PS119.18" was painstakingly engraved in tiny letters along one edge and, sure enough, where the digits ended were the two loops that showed where the hinges had been.
"One-nineteen-eighteen," Watson said thoughtfully. "A date? With the initials of the maker? Surely there's more than one watchmaker in London with the initials P.S."
Holmes shook his head. "He's a clergyman. A moral lawyer." There was some distaste in his voice, well-cloaked beneath disdain. "Not a date, my dear Watson, or a name. A Psalm. 'Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law.' Just the sort of thing a man like our bishop would want close."
Watson admitted this was the case, but a watchmaker's signature would have been more useful. "That tells us nothing, then," he moaned. "Nothing about who would have an interest in taking the thing from him."
Holmes was still staring at the bit of metal, deep in thought. "No," he said suddenly, brushing his fingers across the back of it, "but this does!" He held up his hand, and Watson leaned in to get a better look. Holmes's fingers were always stained, the effects of too much dealing with chemicals and experiments, but on the pads now Watson could barely see a dusting of a fine, silvery powder.
"If that is what I think," he began. How long had it taken him to convince Holmes to give up the single vice he could not abide, that dreadful cocaine habit, the seven percent solution? Years, it had been, years of cajoling and begging and blackmailing and bribery. Their relationship was sometimes more like a crime scene of its own than a love affair. It was too easy a habit to fall back into, and he would prefer neither of them had any more contact with it.
"It isn't," Holmes snapped irritably, "so you can stop glaring at me like that. Aconitum belladonna, Watson. A small Scottish plant. Small blue flowers with dark purple berries which, in quantity, can trigger a dream-state of utter, uncontrolled bliss. In a little more quantity, they're quite fatal. And in powdered form," he finished, brushing his fingers with the handkerchief, "most often called Moondust, and distributed for a small fee at certain nocturnal establishments."
Watson knew, before he spoke, what was going to happen next. "And you want us to investigate those... establishments."
Holmes looked unconcerned. "Well, not all of them."
"Let me guess." Watson sighed. "Just the one you've been told never to set foot in, ever again? And might I add, I'm still not clear on how you--you!--managed to get yourself blackballed from a brothel."
"A misunderstanding," Holmes sniffed. "None of which was my fault. But it's simple enough; we shall have to go in disguise. We'll bring along that fellow from the City who found the body."
"What do we need him for?" Watson asked suspiciously.
"Oh, nothing really," Holmes answered airily. "But Lestrade was adamant that we keep him involved somehow, and another set of eyes is hardly going to hurt."
Considering what Holmes was holding in his hand, Watson found his choice of words more than a little troubling.
* * * *
The Sisters of Saint Catherine of Siena had escaped the bulk of anti-Catholic prejudice in England by being the chief providers of two essential services in London: the best hospital and the best brothel. Saint Catherine's Hospital, an imposing stone building in Chelsea, was known best as the place where the young Prince of Wales had been saved after a bomb had gone off too near his pram as a babe. After that, the Queen herself had assured the Sisters' protection. This royal debt was doubtless also responsible for the continued existence of their other, more profitable line of business: the Crimson Veil.
For centuries, governments and abbeys in other parts of Europe had sponsored such institutions. The reasons were generally pragmatic--there would always be people trading in sex, whether condoned or not, and in bowing to this necessary and natural vice they could exact some control over it, keep disease and violence at bay, and make a little profit for the redemption of their souls along the way. The original, martyred Saint Catherine had been an ascetic who had eschewed intercourse but flogged herself daily; some of her later followers took on the part about flogging--if requested--and left the celibacy to the saints.
Thus, the Crimson Veil, a labyrinth of stone and candlelight, thick carpet and opium smoke, was at once decadent and respectable--a den of hedonism, an aristocratic meeting space, a working class hideaway. It catered to everyone without questions, and the varied forms of payment the Sisters accepted kept the abbey in knowledge and favors as sure as it kept them in coin.
Strictly speaking, it catered to almost everyone. Sherlock Holmes was not welcome inside. Watson had never got the full story, or even a significant enough piece of it to begin putting a story together, but he knew what the result would be. Holmes loved an opportunity for disguises. He was dressed as an officer in the Welsh Fusiliers, his hair slicked neatly and a curl of moustache above his lip. He had said, as Watson was helping him fasten his collar, that uniforms had been designed as the surest way to keep someone from noticing one's face, and Watson had no doubt he was right. Watson himself had never frequented the Veil--he had never needed to. He had Holmes, whose fits of jealous pique were staggering. For a while, he'd had Mary, who had been the cause of those fits. He could still remember the glow of her eyes, the smooth skin and soft curve of her breasts, the flush of her skin as her body had welcomed him in. Holmes, he knew, had tried to drive all those memories away with a determination that bordered on obsession, not understanding that they were not comparable, that for Watson it had never been a competition. For someone so brilliant, possessed of such incredible faculty of mind, Holmes's understanding of human emotion was still incomplete. Watson's devotion to him was absolute--that he had loved, married, and lost someone else had never altered that.
Dawson, it seemed, was not a regular at the Veil either. He was a polite, quiet man, committed to see his duty through but plainly uncomfortable and wishing he were somewhere else. "It's not that I mind the place," he explained in a low, apologetic voice. "It's good people in the Veil, I know that. Take care of each other, do a good service, and all that. But I'm a married man!"
"Newly married, too," Holmes said absently, with barely more than a glance at him. "Last Sunday? Or the one before?"
Watson rather enjoyed the look on Dawson's face at that. He always did, when someone new encountered Holmes's deductions for the first time. "The one before," he said, "but how did you know?"
"Your wedding ring," Holmes answered, tugging at his collar to straighten it. "You do keep fiddling with it, which suggests you aren't used to wearing it. Furthermore, there's no break in the color of the skin beneath it, which means you haven't had it long enough for the rest of your hand to tan around it--which it would, even in this abominable weather. But you can assure your dear bride that it is all in the line of duty, after all."
He swept ahead of them, striding into the foyer with the imperious grace of an officer on leave, and before Watson could call out to him to wait, the smoke and shadows of the Veil swallowed him.
Half an hour later, Watson had successfully tracked Holmes, who had successfully trapped him, in return, by stretching out his long, lean body along the sofa that Watson was occupying, and resting his head in his lap. It was a common enough posture at home, but this, Watson reflected, was without a doubt the only place outside their own lodgings where such a display would be acceptable. Holmes was smoking his pipe, to all appearances fully engaged in blowing lazy smoke rings up toward the shadowed ceilings, but Watson knew how closely he was actually observing everything. Dawson sat stiffly nearby, dark eyes darting around the room suspiciously, as if afraid of being dragged off to a dark corner any moment. Holmes had already chided him in vain to look as if he were enjoying himself. Dawson, while generally lacking in thespian aptitude, did at least make the attempt to play into Holmes's disguise with a remark about the appetites going abroad apparently awoke in a man.
"Whatever those appetites are, this is the place to indulge them." It was a little belated, but whispers could take a while to travel in this place. The voice was soft, smoky, and breathy as if blown from a candle. A boy appeared from the shadows--a young man, really, but Watson would be hard pressed to pinpoint an age--undressed to his waistcoat and slouching against the wall with a dark smile. A tumble of honey curls circled his brow like a halo, which was, given the situation, a potentially disturbing analogy.
A few more steps and he had draped himself over Dawson's lap, which made the constable grit his teeth and sit very, very still in his chair. "Sorry," the boy purred against his cheek. "I didn't mean to frighten you, I just thought you looked lonely."
Dawson swallowed. "I assure you," he said stiffly, with as much composure as he could summon, "I am neither frightened nor lonely."
The boy slid off Dawson's lap with a disappointed little laugh. "I would disagree, but I'm a gentleman," he said glibly, but Watson saw his hand ghost across the constable's thigh as the boy bent to kiss him an apparently reluctant farewell. The sunnily wicked smile turned to where Watson and Holmes sprawled on the settee. The shadows fell across the lad's face in pocks and coils that shifted as he drew closer, and even in this light Watson could see the strangeness of his eyes–one blue as summer sky, the other as gold as the sun which hung in it. They were like the eyes of an exotic feral cat, and Watson did not look away from them until the boy was close enough to join them on the settee.
"You don't look lonely or frightened," he murmured, "but somehow I don't think you'll push me away."
He smelled of wine and tobacco, and the skin of his flushed cheeks was incomprehensibly smooth. His lips were just a little swollen and his tongue flicked out to wet them and, no, Watson was not inclined to push him away. Holmes may have felt differently--his fingers tightened possessively around Watson's hand till it went white, though his expression lost none of its nonchalance.
And then he sat upright very quickly, leaning forward to get a closer look.
"...Fascinating," he murmured.
The boy smiled lazily, but for a moment there was something contrived and artificial about it, as if a mask were slipping just a little. Holmes reached out a hand to cup his cheek, head bent close to peer intently at those strange eyes. "Your eyes," he said softly, "are exquisite." His acting skills were always impeccable, and he made the whisper smooth as a lover's, but Watson, who had many years behind him of reading Holmes, could hear the genuine scientific curiosity in his voice beneath an attraction that was probably not entirely feigned. Holmes found people attractive for as long as they were interesting.
"My father had them, too. Or so I'm told." The boy turned his face into Holmes's touch, and Watson felt his blood stirring at the sight of those full soft lips encircling one of the detective's long, slender fingers.
Holmes's eyes were dark, and Watson thought he might be the only person aware of how much tension was actually in his voice when he asked, "You don't know?"
The boy shook his head, drawing Holmes's finger from his mouth with deliberate care, and Watson noticed every flick of his tongue against the ink-stained skin. "Never met him. I was raised here." He tilted his head, a very real but still devilish smile flickering across his face. "Surely this doesn't interest you?"
"On the contrary," Holmes murmured, fingertips brushing across the smooth, pale throat before dropping to his lap, "you interest me very much."
The boy's eyes fluttered ever so briefly closed. "What do you want to know?" he whispered. His voice was low and a little hoarse.
"Why, my dear boy," said Holmes, the pad of his thumb resting against the young man's lower lip. "The truth, of course."
The boy laughed, catching Holmes's hand again and holding it against his lips. "In this place? Truth is... negotiable." He tilted his head again, and his strange colored eyes glinted in the shadows. "And expensive."
"Nevertheless," said Holmes, lifting his hand to brush the boy's golden curls back from his face.
The lad swallowed. "A wager?"
Holmes straightened, ever so slightly. "Such as?"
Watson watched the boy's hands run up the length of Holmes's thighs, rubbing lightly at his groin through the tight uniform trousers. He saw Watson looking and met his eyes brazenly, lips curving in a smile. "Part truth, part story. Guess which."
Holmes appeared to consider. Watson knew it was only appearance. "And if I guess correctly? What do I win?"
The boy smiled again; his tongue slid wantonly over those swollen lips. "What do you want?"
"I see." Watson knew Holmes well enough to know he was unlikely to follow up on this, but also well enough to see he was tempted. "And if I lose?"
The boy sunk to his knees, hands resting meaningfully in Holmes's lap, but his eyes remained fixed on Watson's face. "Then what I want."
Holmes didn't press for detail--Watson didn't expect him to, since the possibility of losing a bet of this nature simply didn't enter into his worldview. Watson found himself wishing it might be otherwise. Over the top of Holmes's and the boy's heads he could see Dawson still sitting stiffly, nervously twisting his ring around his finger.
Watson was aware, from intense personal experience, that Holmes was perfectly capable of being seductive when he chose. It was just that he very seldom chose. Even with Watson, he rarely expended the effort, knowing that their relationship no longer really required it.
But now he watched as Holmes tapped into some little-used store of sensuality, all without actually so much as loosening another of the boy's shirt buttons. Instead he leaned in to kiss his lips, softly, feather-light. "What's your name?"
The answer came in a whimper of loss as Holmes pulled away. "Jack."
Holmes took barely any time at all to think, sitting back to prevent another kiss. "Lie."
The boy's answering smile was rueful, but he nodded. "Of course it is. The rules of the place; I wouldn't use a real name here. It's the one I give."
"Jack it is," Holmes relented, but kept his distance all the same, one hand raised in the air between them. "Where do you come from?"
"Here. London." Jack sat back on his heels, looking up at Homes with undisguised desire. "Orphan. Raised by the Sisters."
Holmes gazed at him a moment longer, then murmured, "True," and leaned in to reward him with another kiss. Jack moaned softly, reaching up to cup the back of Holmes's neck. Watson shifted, rubbing himself subtly through his trousers. Dawson appeared torn between not looking, and watching what did seem to be a sort of interrogation. Watson actually had no idea what Holmes meant to get from Jack--was he after moondust? The bishop? The murder itself? He did not deal in unnecessary questions.
"Why are you here?" Holmes asked Jack gently.
The boy laughed again, breathlessly, fingering the fastenings to Holmes's trousers in a manner impossible to mistake for anything innocent. "Why is anyone here? Why are you here?" he countered.
"I think," Holmes answered softly. "I think I may have been looking for you."
Jack was obviously gratified by the answer, though Watson knew there was bound to be more to it than mere desire. There always was, with Holmes. Jack's strange eyes were bright beneath the shadow of falling curls. "True?"
"True," Holmes assure him, kissing his forehead. "But surely, my dear boy, there is somewhere you would prefer to be? Some other line of work than this?"
Even in the gas-lit shadows that crept through the room, Watson could see that the charm was complete. Jack was smitten. He looked up almost adoringly and nodded, then shifted to rest his cheek against Holmes's knee.
"Tell me?" Holmes offered, calmly stroking Jack's hair.
"It doesn't matter," the boy answered quietly. "It isn't safe--that's what the Mother Superior says. She's been like a mother to me my whole life. And she says it will all be over soon, and then I can go anywhere--maybe Egypt, or Africa! Once my father stops looking for me."
The story, to Watson, was not adding up. "I thought you were an orphan!" he blurted. Holmes glared at him darkly.
Jack's tongue ran over his lips again as he sat up, hand resting loosely atop Holmes's thigh. "I am," he said stubbornly. "He gave me up as a baby, but the Sisters say that now I'm of age he's looking for me. I don't know what he wants me for." He shrank a little against Holmes, between his legs, and nuzzled at his lap before looking up at him earnestly. "That's why you can't tell anyone you've seen me," he said desperately. "But that's the rules here, anyway. That's why it's safe."
Holmes rested a hand on the top of his head. His cheeks were flushed, Watson noticed; even the resolute Holmes was affected by lovely Jack's proximity and obvious desire.
"All true," he said, swallowing hard.
Jack's fingers were tracing the bulge in Holmes' trousers experimentally through the thin fabric. "True," he agreed quietly. "You win."
For a moment, Holmes let his fingertip play about the corner of Jack's lips. "And it so happens," he says gently, letting his hand fall away, "that I already have what I want."
The boy's disappointment was palpable, and Watson found himself torn between a similar sentiment and a quiet rush of triumph as Holmes took his hand and led him away.
* * * *
Watson had been right when he thought that Holmes had not been unaffected by Jack or their outing to the Veil. It had been clear enough what was on Dawson's mind when the young constable staggered off toward the City, and he'd gone no more than a few steps before Holmes had stopped him, summoned a hansom, and sent him on his way at a rather brisker pace.
Then he had done the same for them. He had been calm and quiet on the ride home, and Watson had assumed that Holmes's brilliant mind was at work on whatever deductions and conclusions he was forming. He had been wrong. The hansom-horse's hoof beats were still echoing on the pavement outside when Holmes swept him into their shared rooms and pinned him against the wall with a fierce, demanding kiss.
Watson felt the back of his head bump against the wall, his blood stirring in his body in a way he hadn't allowed it to while they were out amongst people, even in the relative security of the Veil. Holmes's mouth was hot against his, wet, and sweet with the lingering taste of tobacco and brandy. Watson clutched at him, tore at the crimson Fusilier's coat and the delicate buttons of the shirt beneath it. Holmes was never one to take his time--it was too precious for much of it to be spent on a single activity, and when the mood struck him it was as instantaneous, and as undeniable, as a lightning strike--but even in the throes of arousal he was nearly as fastidious with his clothes as ever. Wrinkling he would permit, tearing never. His strong, slim fingers closed around Watson's wrist, pressing him back into the grooved and textured wall with the whole weight of his body. He pulled Watson's belt deftly from its buckle, pushing his drawers and trousers down his hips with a hungry moan.
Watson felt his knees go weak, his cock hard in anticipation. Holmes's fingers closed over it, stroking fast, his ink-stained fingers flicking over the slick head and back down, coating his length, cherishing and toying and teasing each inch. He pulled a little away, his piercing dark eyes fixed on Watson's face as if this, too, were an experiment, but one he had repeated over and over for years, one in which he was already quite sure of the outcome. "More," Watson breathed, his one free hand pulling determinedly at Holmes's shirt, trousers, belt. "For god's sake, man, more..."
Desire flared in Holmes's dark eyes. Watson thrust into his hand, eagerly, desperately, as if the sheer force of his need could drive Holmes to do more, to do other than proceed at his own chosen pace. The firm, strong hand around his cock was relentless, steady, but Watson's breath was ragged and Holmes's face was flushed. He alternated between clenching his teeth to keep back the wanton cries and letting them tear free from his throat, each one making Holmes's pace and pulse quicken. He wanted this so much, had ached for it at least since they'd entered the tantalizing shadowed corridors of the Veil, had missed it when their interrupted breakfast had put a stop to a morning's lovemaking. He craved it, those slippery fingers sliding over his desperate skin, the heat of that pliant mouth against his own and the weight of Holmes's body, heavy against his chest, pressing him into a wall riddled with bullet-holes and bookshelves. He freed his wrist, yanking Holmes's coat off his shoulders, fumbling with his shirt buttons. He would have Holmes naked; no other option would be acceptable.
He got as far as the trousers before his knees jerked and his release swept over him, leaving him sagging against the wall to catch his breath. Holmes kissed him, not terribly gently, still stroking him mercilessly as he turned Watson toward the wall. It was almost too much, exquisite and excruciating all at once; Watson heard himself moan, "More, more," and scarcely recognized his own voice.
Holmes pressed against Watson's back, all slick, warm skin and folds of rough fabric. His teeth grazed the back of Watson's neck, and he murmured low in his ear, "Stay." The weight lifted away, but Watson stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, his forehead resting on his arms. He could hear Holmes fumbling in the desk-drawer, somewhere behind him, and knew what he was after. While there were substances enough for purchase, meant to ease intrusion into the body, Holmes had insisted on inventing one of his own. And so he had, and now kept it in a small blue bottle in a locked inner drawer of his writing desk. Most of the time Watson was glad for the discretion; at moments like this he wished it were somewhere slightly more accessible. "Holmes..."
That there came no answer was answer enough; Holmes was too impatient for witty retorts. Not a moment more, and he turned Watson's face and caught his mouth in another fervent kiss, fingers toying, teasing, sliding, preparing. Watson's whimper was lost in Holmes's throat, his hips rocking already in anticipation and want. It was not long before the possibility of discomfort was not nearly worth further delay and he whispered, demanding, "Now."
And with that, Holmes surrendered everything, gave him what he begged for. He buried himself inside Watson, holding still for a moment, his breath ragged and his heart thundering in his chest, pressed to Watson's back. He reached around him again, taking hold of his sated cock and stroking gently, but there was not so much gentleness in the motion of his hips as he began to thrust possessively into him. He had never been willing to share Watson with anyone, and although tonight it had been Holmes, not Watson, whom someone had tried to tempt away, still he rejected the entire idea forcefully. Each thrust, each slap of skin on skin, each kiss interrupted by the need for breath, they all said mine, mine, mine as clearly as if he had been announcing it in Watson's ear. And when Holmes came, breathless and trembling, Watson nearly felt as though it had been said. Holmes collapsed against his back, but straightened before either of them could topple over onto the floor. It was reluctantly that Holmes withdrew from Watson's body, but tenderly that he turned that same body in his arms.
"My dear Watson," Holmes murmured fondly, brushing their lips together; he reached up to touch Watson's temple, drew a finger down his cheek. "I have just had the most extraordinary revelation."
"What is it?" Watson asked, though with some caution. These moments, with Holmes, could swing wildly from divine to frustrating, and he was rather too tired for the latter.
Holmes kissed him again, triumphantly. "My dear Watson, I have solved our case."
Watson found himself chuckling, in spite of himself, the timing, everything. "Well, that's hardly news," he teased. "I'm surprised you didn't have the answer in the hansom on the way home. But you'll have to wait until I'm less sticky and in my dressing gown to explain it to me."
"Oh, all right," Holmes said, petulant, but he, too, cleaned himself up and undressed and, by the time Watson had tidied himself sufficiently, was sprawled on their bed with his pipe in his lips, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.
"A poisonous atmosphere of smoke you have, here," Watson said, not really meaning it, and lay down next to him, his head pillowed comfortably on Holmes's chest. "Go on, then. Dazzle me with your deductive genius. Who killed the bishop?"
"The Mother Superior of the Sisters," Holmes answered. "It's so obvious, now that it's all fallen into place."
Watson was silent for a moment, and then said, very slowly, "I'm afraid it's not at all obvious to me," which meant that Holmes really ought to go on and explain. "How did you come to this extraordinary conclusion?"
"It was what Jack said, about the Mother Superior being like a mother to her," Holmes said, sounding quite smug as he added, "you did realize Jack was a girl, Watson, didn't you?"
Watson made a rather undignified noise. "What?"
"A girl," Holmes repeated. "No Adam's apple, you see. And surely you don't imagine I could remain quite so close to anyone for such a period of time without noticing what gender they were! But don't worry, my dear, you'll soon get the hang of it."
Watson was not actually sure which part of this extraordinary speech to address first, so he settled for asking, "So what, exactly, was a girl doing dressed as a boy prostitute?"
"Hiding in plain sight," Holmes answered, tilting his head to brush a kiss across the top of Watson's head. "Do you remember how you noticed the bishop had been strangled? And the mark like a cross?" His fingers played absently against Watson's side. "The likelihood of it being from the bishop's own cross blinded me at first to the realization that the wounds are completely in keeping with one of the Sisters' chain crucifixes."
Watson tilted his head back to peer at Holmes's face. He loved this look, though he loved less admitting to doing so. It made Holmes smug. But he was invariably brilliant, and brilliance, Watson had discovered, was intoxicating.
"So you see, it was only after meeting Jack," Holmes explained, though it was not much of an explanation at all. "You are familiar with Aristotle, Watson, are you not? 'For as the eyes of bats are to the blaze of day, so is the reason in our soul to the things which are by nature most evident of all.' The eyes, as they say, have it. Or rather, her eyes. And her father's."
And suddenly, to Watson, all became clear. "The bishop," he said, sitting upright. "Jack's father. We don't know what color his other eye was."
"On the contrary," said Holmes lazily, "I believe we do, now. I also think," he added after a moment, "that it might be for the best if your autopsy determines that the Bishop of Guildford slipped and fell into the Thames by accident."
Watson stared at him in surprise; it was not unheard of for Holmes to want to protect the witnesses of a case, but he was never one to hide his own talents under the proverbial bushel when he could be admired for them instead. Jack's pretty eyes, he thought, have had more of an effect than even he knows.
He smiled. "I could," he agreed slowly, "be persuaded."
Holmes smiled back. It was like a ring around the moon--rare, and beautiful, and sometimes a little frightening. Watson loved it.
Holmes put aside his pipe and reached for Watson. "I think I can persuade you," he purred.
The Hysteria Machine
Louise Blaydon
The thing began, as affairs in our rooms so frequently did, with a minor mystery.
At the time at which the events in question transpired, I had not yet acquired a practice of my own, and as such was still employed at Saint Bart's hospital as a casual surgeon and lackey. The great advantage of this, for my purposes, was that it enabled me to demand personal days at my whimsy--or rather, at the whimsy of Mister Sherlock Holmes--such that we might catch an impulsive train to some distant part of the country on the trail of this thief or that scoundrel, or pursue a suspect across the capital at will. The disadvantage, of course, was that it rendered my accounts somewhat erratic, with the result that my income so barely sufficed to cover my costs that Holmes had taken to keeping my check book in the locked top drawer of his desk, with my permission. This had the benevolent effect of curtailing my inherited tendency towards impulsive spending; it also, I fear, appealed rather to Holmes's ego. It would not be obvious to any but those who know him very well--and the number of such men is very small--but Sherlock Holmes has a streak of vanity in him, and he enjoys the sensation of control. Were he not so eclectic in his energies, I have no doubt he would have made an excellent national dictator.
A second disadvantage to the nature of my employment at Saint Bart's was that I had not been afforded any personal space of my own wherein to store my things--by which I refer to my stethoscope, diagnostic texts, and other basic accoutrements of the modern physician. This meant that I was forced to carry around on my person a rather sizable leather bag in which I kept all such items (and whose weight placed a medically inadvisable strain upon my wounded left shoulder, but this could not be helped). The bag being so heavy, I invariably set it down as soon as was feasible upon returning to our rooms, and as such, it was always to be found a little inside the main door of our sitting room, exactly where I had left it.