The train ride was interminable. The dog cart even more so. Sherlock Holmes twisted irritably in his seat, fidgeting under his blindfold. "I don't see the point of a present if I cannot see it, Watson," he had snapped several times already, each time to no real reply.
He fumbled his way out of the cart, Watson's hands steady on his waist, then he was lead down a path, smooth gravel crunching under his boots as the cart rattled off. "Is there a point to this, Watson?" he sniped. "Or are you simply intending to lead me about the countryside, in some childish parlour game?"
Watson laughed lightly in his ear, then stopped. Shifting him slightly, he reached up, gently tilting Holmes' head back and undoing the blindfold.
The house was magnificent; Welsh stone standing proudly in the rolling gardens. Gables arched high over his head, pediment scrubbed and wantonly on display. Holmes took a slow step forward, then another, breath catching in his throat.
"It belongs to a friend of mine from the club," Watson was speaking behind him, barely heard over the pound of his own blood. "He's out of the country for the week, and said we could use it as we see fit."
Holmes reached out, fingers ghosting over the wall, barely daring to touch and Watson took his hand, laying it gently against the stonework. "We have the house to ourselves. Holmes," he said quietly. "There is no one else about."
With a shiver, Holmes let his hand rest on the stonework. He tented his fingers, then relaxed them, stroking softly. The surface was rough under the tips, slightly warmed by the sun. His lips fell open a little as he explored it, breath beginning to quicken. He ran his hands carefully over the moulding of the window sill, down the smooth stonework, stroking lovingly.
Dormers. Dentils. Holmes shivered in delight. He ran his hands gently over a series of quoins, fingered lovingly at the pilasters . Resting the side of his face against the brickwork, he fancied he could hear the breath of the house, steady and reassuring against his ear.
He made his way slowly, worshipfully along the side of the house, caressing each and every feature. Here, a small patch of clapboard near a cellar entrance. There, a small crack in the stonework. He kissed it gently, soothing the hurt with his tongue and felt the house shudder in response.
The door yielded to a tender finger and he slipped inside, eyes alight with excitement. Here, there were even more treasures. Polished staircases. Warm wainscotting. Sturdy lead plumbing. Candle and gas sconces. He stroked the sleek banister beckoning him upwards, feeling it shiver under his hand.
He made his way carefully up the stairs, stroking every rail, every curve. His breath came in quick, short pants as he moved from step to step, carefully lavishing each one with generous attention.
He could hear Watson behind him, soft, slightly irregular steps following as he moved across the carpet, fingers dancing along the walls. He curved narrow pirouettes in the hall, laughing in delight. He buried his hands in the drapery, twining his fingers through the smooth slip of the tassels on the tie-backs. He turned a slow, lazy waltz in the master bedroom, breath high in his chest as Watson leaned against a door-jamb, a fond smile caressing his lips.
The house opened around him, welcoming him, floorboards slick under his feet as Holmes flew down the stairs, whirling through the parlour, the dining room, the kitchen, fingers stroking and caressing every inch. The wood groaned under his touch, the metalwork gasping in need.
The scullery undid him entirely, naked stone proud in the sunlight from the large, uncurtained window and he fell to his knees, worshipfully tonguing the worn floor. He crawled on hands and knees, a begging supplicant to the wall, fingering it lovingly before bestowing the lightest kiss. He rocked himself against it, feeling the house move around him in response and he pressed the length of his body against it, swaying into its embrace.
He could feel Watson behind him, warm bulk against his back. Careful, surgeonís fingers closed on his hips, stroking gently and he spread his legs a little further apart. His belt was undone, his pants urged to the floor and his erection sprang free, the cold Welsh stone bringing an ecstatic shiver. He rested the side of his face against that marvellous masonry, closing his eyes, feeling Watson's hands upon him, inside him even as the house stroked him tenderly. With every motion the other man made he could feel himself rubbing against the wall, the house opening around him, taking him gently.
Watson moved closer, trapping him against the wall with a hand either side of his head. Holmes let his legs buckle, let the other man take his weight, head falling back as Watson pushed him further into the architecture. His arms spread out, splaying over the masonry, gasping in ecstasy as Watson tenderly entered him from behind, fingers closing over a small stone protrusion stroking it tenderly, moving between the house and Watson, his lover and his beloved.
The house closed tender fingers about him, about them both and he rocked on the edge, breath coming in snatched gasps, eyes closing tight. He dragged his face over the stone again, feeling the house scratch its soft nails on his flesh and thrust harder, feeling the house take him in, eager and ardent. Watson began to move faster behind him, breath coming in short, harsh grunts and he gasped in rapture, feeling his release come from deep inside to caress the wall, the force of it leaving him pale and shaking.
Watson's face buried in his neck, teeth nipping the sensitive flesh there and came with a silent shudder of his own, arms clamping about him as they fell against the wall, the house catching them both, lowering them tenderly to the floor.
Cradled between his lovers, Holmes let out a shuddering breath, feeling Watson kiss his shoulder as the house held them both.
"Happy birthday, Holmes."
All Content Copyright © 2001 Taleya Joinson