The Lion's Den Part 1

Part I

The technical stuff:

RATING:                NC-17 for the sex
PAIRING:                Holmes/Watson
WORD COUNT:    Part I: 3,420 Part 2: 6,750 Part 3: 6,690 Part 4: 4,630 Part 5: 3,390
                                 Total: 24,880
WARNINGS:            Slash - now you all know what that is.
SPOILERS:              None
ARCHIVE:               The Motley Collection
DISCLAIMER:         Characters borrowed strictly for fun, not profit. No offence intended.
BETAING:               Not betaed. Apologies. If you spot any goofs please let me know.
FEEDBACK:           Would be lovely.
NOTE:                     If you wish to link to this story it would be much appreciated if you could let the
                                 author know.

* * *

If there is one thing that I can not stand it is someone fussing over me, even someone as kind-hearted as my dear Watson. He knows that I get like this on a regular basis when I am bored with the tedium of life. He calls them my ‘black moods', though I, myself, am inclined to think of them as grey. My ‘grey moods'. Perhaps I say that because when the cocaine has worn thin and I am left as a battered sailing vessel that has survived a hurricane - sans sails, masts or rudder - everything would seem to be in shades of grey. At times like these I am sure that my life is one long, colourless exercise in ennui.

Poor Watson! He stalks over to his desk to do some writing, no doubt thoroughly fed up with me. I can not blame him. He despairs of me, but what can I do? I am impossible when I get like this and I know it. I am as I am and when I am not working, the drab conventions of life are unbearable. Perhaps if I had something to distract me, but, alas, not even abstruse chemical analyses, nor even a concert can distract me when I am weighed down by the dull routine of existence. What I desperately need is something to occupy my mind, to prevent my thoughts from drifting toward my friend... No, I must not!

I really must learn to curb my tongue. If I criticise my good Watson, whether overtly or unwittingly, he can become most perturbed, though I doubt very much that he would consider leaving me. He really has a most forgiving nature, though perhaps he might leave one day. One day I might push him too far and he will leave. Or he might take a wife and leave me. In that event I would simply be on my own again as I was before I met him. So be it. So why does the thought of being on my own again leave me with a strangely hollow feeling? After all, unlike most human beings I am somewhat of a solitary creature. And I do not believe that these hollow feelings have anything to do with my financial situation - somewhat precarious, I will admit. After all, were I not so choosy with regard to my clients I could certainly afford much better accommodation. No, this hollow feeling has nothing to do with keeping a roof over my head and everything to do with having my dear friend share the one that I have.

Watson is still sitting at his writing desk, no doubt irritated with me, but I observe that he is in no mood for writing. He repeatedly glances at me out of the corner of his eye while pretending to shuffle papers around. My dear Watson, you think that I do not notice, but how could I not when observation and deduction are the cornerstones of my existence? He really does worry about me to excess.

When first we agreed to share lodgings together I had no notion that my good Watson would become both a friend and an invaluable partner. When I lived in Montague Street my life consisted mostly of spending time in the chemical lab at Barts and waiting hopefully for an occasional client to come knocking at my door. That was my existence for some eight years before I met Watson. He no doubt considers that I am anti-social, and no doubt I am, but I find polite society wearisome. I am drawn to the underworld and all its grotesque intrigues.

Dear innocent Watson! He thinks that I am chaste in the ways of the flesh and live the life of a monk. Hah! If he but knew the things that I have done - and still do - the experiences that I have had, he would no doubt be horrified, and with good reason! The dear boy has only had experience of the fair sex. He does not know the darker desires of the soul that plague me always; that drive me to seek relief in the arms of strangers. I would be ashamed if he knew how attractive I find him.

To wish for something more than anonymous and fleeting encounters would seem futile; to wish for the softer pleasures of making love would seem hopeless. Each time I indulge my darkest fantasies I feel soiled, I feel ashamed, and yet I can not help it. If I can not have my friend Watson, then I need... something! I must at all costs keep up the charade of the civilised man; the cold-hearted, calculating machine who shuns the softer emotions - and I succeed admirably! Why, at the beginning of this recent Sholto affair he called me just that: a calculating machine; an automaton. How very far from the truth it is!

Each time I venture out I am taking a risk, and I know it. The risk of discovery and, worse still, the risk of catching some wretched disease each time I am with a stranger haunts me, for there would seem to be no cure at the present time. A disease such as syphilis would preclude my ever having a meaningful relationship with anyone, especially my dearest Watson - not that the latter is likely. Little wonder that, when I return from one of my night-time forays, I cleanse myself unmercifully, scrubbing so vigorously that I my flesh is flayed and I am sore afterward. Sore but civilised. Other times - more often than not - I manage to assuage my own needs.

Last night, yet again, I was forced to utilise my hand to pacify my desires. It is peaceful, nay pleasurable, to stroke oneself in the dark, all the while envisioning that it is he; that it is my Watson's gentle hands which delight me; his fingers stroking my full member and cupping my balls - how gentle he would be! - and finally his sweet mouth worshipping me and bringing me to glory. Mm, oh, yes! But the aftermath... My emission lies cold and sticky high on my belly, and I am alone. Always alone. After cleansing myself thoroughly I open the window, no matter the weather, for the air is heavy with the musky odour of empty lust. When I return to bed I lie there in the dark shivering, longing for my dear friend's arms to warm me.

Small wonder that indulging in narcotic substances has become a habit. Cocaine at least gives me the mental exaltation which, when idle, I crave - though, in truth, ‘tis but a poor substitute for my dear friend's arms. Also, unless I am truly exhausted at the end of a case, whence I sleep the dreamless sleep of the dead, I frequently need laudanum to help me sleep, for I sleep but poorly. Of course, my good doctor is most vociferous in his objections to cocaine. I can not blame him for, of course, he does not realise that both substances are really substitutes for his good self.

He is watching me again. I can feel his eyes on me. My dear, dear Watson, please do not concern yourself. I will be quite all right. This is a perfectly normal state of affairs for me, and after sharing rooms with me for seven years, you should know that by now.

Still, I can feel his eyes on me. He is not even pretending to be otherwise occupied any more. Oh, Watson, please! Your concern is sweet torture for I would have more - so much more that you could not even imagine, or could you? I wonder.

I hear the scrape of chair legs on the floorboards as he pushes his chair back, followed by soft footsteps. Yes, he is walking toward me. Deciding to keep my eyes closed, I pretend to be sleeping.

He walks lightly so as not to disturb me, but I hear him approach the settee and stop in front of it. I would judge that he is less than two feet away. He is just standing there, no doubt gazing down on me. I wonder what he thinks. Does he think me a poor excuse for a human being? In some ways I suppose I am. But no, I have never detected pity in his gaze for I would see it in his eyes. No doubt, if I could but see, there would be none there now either.

Wait... he is moving once more! Where? My room. My room? What could he possibly want in my room? Listen! What is he doing? A faint, indistinct sound. I dare not open my eyes lest he become aware of my deception. Where is he? He must be still in my room as I have not heard him re-enter the sitting room. Yes, here he comes now. Walking lightly still. Approaching quietly.

Of a sudden, I feel a cool breeze on my face and I am aware that he is covering me with a rug. No, it is too light to be a rug. It is the shawl! My old shawl! He has taken it from my bed. I feel him tucking it around me, covering me carefully. Oh, but he is such a comfort! No one else would ever care about me like he does. I wonder why he puts up with me. No doubt he considers me a friend and he, too, is lonely. Hah! He has even less family than I do - no one at all. He respects me, I know; even reveres me, though I neither expect nor desire such. I could not bear to lose his respect if he ever knew just how much truly I covet him; how at times my loins ache for him, for his gentle touch... No, I must not think about it!

He is still standing close to the settee, still observing me. I regulate my breathing so that he will not realise that I am awake. What is going through his mind? Does he feel sorrow at my plight? Perhaps. Does he believe that I am a tragic genius? That is conceivable. Does he wish that I were more like a normal person? Unquestionably.

Wait! He is moving. He steps closer. I can smell him now. My Watson has a pleasant scent about him that is unique, not like other men. My sense of smell is keen and I am always aware of it. He seldom bothers with eau de Cologne or other scents, but he always smells clean... and male. Very male. Nothing like women with their overpowering floral scents and frills and fripperies. There is nothing false about Watson. He is as he is, honest and true and a most loyal friend and biographer. It is only I, with my carnal desires, who would have him be more.

A lover. Yes! A lover who would look on me with adoration in his eyes and fire in his loins. But why should anyone love me? Why indeed, especially when I am so careful to present to the world at large the cold façade of the perfect logician, the intellectual reasoner; formidable and unapproachable. After all, were I to blow my own trumpet, I would have to state that I am quite an excellent actor, if I do say so myself - and I do!

A soft rustle of material. What is he doing? A crack! Hah! The crack of a strained tendon! He is kneeling beside me! Oh, Watson, what do you want? Have you come to gloat over my weakness? You think my addiction to cocaine is my weakness. Hah! If you but knew you would be surprised to learn that my weakness is you, dear friend. You are my addiction and my consolation, my desire and my crucible. You are the flaw within my logic, the crack in my heart that only grows wider with each passing day. My dearest Watson, you are my comfort and my torment.

If you knew how frightened I was that I would lose you to the fair Miss Morstan, what would you say? Would you gloat over my obsession, or would you look on me with compassion in your heart? Oh, I pretended not to have noticed her beauty, but how could I not? I observed every detail, and she was a most attractive young woman. I would not blame you if you had been lured by her feminine charms.

Oh, who am I fooling? Only myself, and it seems that I can no longer even manage that! I was jealous! Shockingly, appallingly jealous of the beauteous Miss Morstan! I hated her, despised her with a passion that frightened me. I found myself improvising scenarios wherein she would meet with a fatal accident. Nothing that could ever be proven, of course. My good Watson must never know of these evil thoughts. How he would despise me for entertaining such diabolic ideas - and rightly so! How anxious I was for that case to be over with so that she would be gone from our lives forever. Whilst pretending lethargy I listened anxiously from my bedroom as he bade her farewell, frozen with mortal dread that he would ask to see her again, for I am sure that she would have agreed - and I would have suffered the agonies of the damned. She was attracted to my handsome partner from the moment she arrived at our doorstep - and that I will not permit! I could not bear to watch in case she touched him or, worse, he touched her. Thank God he let her go! He let her go when he could so easily have asked to see her once more, and I have no doubt that the lady would have said yes. The profound relief I felt at her departure was so great that, had I not already been lying down, I might simply have collapsed.

My Watson is a handsome man with many attractions, but she shall not have him. No, not Miss Mary Morstan! No, nor will any female. He is mine! No matter that he does not yet know it, he is mine! Mine, and I will never let him go! When he is with me it is torture, but if he left me I would be bereft, and I know it. He has come to mean altogether far too much to me and I should never have allowed it. But how could I have prevented it? The process was gradual, insidious, pervasive. Before I could even realise what was happening he had come to be so vital to me that the thought of being without him leaves me ice-cold - and very much alone. I have no wish to share these rooms with another. If he were to move out I would manage the rent on my own, even if I occasionally had to take a case that was decidedly beneath my dignity. But he will not leave for I will not permit it. He must not leave. I would do anything to keep him here. Anything! He is mine! Always mine, and I will never set him free!

How close he is! I can hear his breathing. My dear Watson, your breathing is somewhat irregular. What is it that disturbs you? Surely not I! I shall continue to lie here pretending to be asleep. Yes. Quiet. Still. Breathing slowly and evenly. Yes.

Of a sudden I feel a touch on my head! A light touch on my hair. His fingers! Brushing the loose hair off my forehead, but, of course, it immediately falls back again as it is fresh-washed and sans lime-cream.

By a supreme effort I control my reaction. I stay still. Not by a muscle or a twitch will I admit my deception. I would not miss this for the world! My dear friend is kneeling beside me, running feather-light fingers through my hair, soothing me with his gentle healer's touch.

If only he knew! Far from soothing me, his touch is exciting me! My heart rate is speeding up and I desperately need to take deeper, faster breaths. I fear that I shall not be able to keep up the charade for very much longer. Oh, my dear Watson, what you are doing is dangerous!

Such gentle touches! How delicate! How light! Oh, if only I could tell him how much he means to me - and what his touch is doing to me! Thank God I am lying on my side with the shawl over me to conceal the evidence!

Wait! He is holding his breath. Why? He is closer! Leaning over me! Much closer! What is he doing? A soft touch on the top of my head! His hand again. No. No, not his hand. Too light. Wait. He is doing it again. Unless I am very much mistaken he used his lips! He did! He used his lips! He... kissed the top of my head! He leaned over and kissed my hair! How lovely! Oh, if only I could tell him how welcome is his touch and how I would have more! So much more!

Dearest friend, what would you do if I asked you to kiss my forehead? My cheek? My lips? Oh, yes, especially my lips! I have refrained from kissing strangers, seldom if ever even wanted to. Kissing is far too intimate. Kisses are for lovers, not anonymous strangers. Oh, but I would give my right arm to be able to share kisses with him! To plunge my tongue into his mouth and explore it thoroughly, and welcome his own sweet tongue that I might stroke it and suck on it in perpetuity. Ah, yes! What a transcendently pleasant thought!

There! Again! He pressed his lips to the hair falling onto my forehead! Oh, lovely! Oh, my dear Watson! Oh, if he would only kiss my cheek so that I might truly feel his lips on my skin! Oh, my sweet, would you? Would you kiss my cheek? How I would love to feel your lips there! And not only there! But one step at a time.

Oh, why is he doing this? Could he possibly love me? Oh, it is too inconceivable to contemplate! Yet, I have seen the way he looks at me, especially when he thinks that I am not paying him any attention. I took it for his natural concern for my health, both as a friend and as a physician. I know he cares for me, but could he possibly love me with such a passion as one man may feel for another? Could he really care for me that much? Oh, that it might be possible! Please God, yes!

His lips are on my hair again. My dear Watson, how tender you are! Oh, ‘tis all I can do to lie still! I envision myself taking his handsome face in my hands and drawing him down to me until our lips meet. Oh, yes! Yes! Yes, please! What I would not give to be able to kiss him! To be able to hold his dear body in my arms and feel his desire pressing against my own! Ah, such bliss that would be!

Fingers again! My dear one is stroking my hair again. Oh, but he is so gentle, so kind-hearted, how could I not love him? My dear, brave Daniel, you do not know it but you have opened the door to the lion's den. Should you dare to enter I promise to lock it behind you and destroy the key so that you will never escape - but nor will I. We shall be caged together. You shall be mine always, as I shall indeed be yours. Does that frighten you, my handsome doctor? It should, for you must know that I shall never let you go!

He has stopped! His actions have ceased! Oh, no, he is pulling back! He is afraid that I will catch him in this most tender of acts. He will get up and leave me! Oh, Watson, please don't go! You must not leave me, not now, dear friend!