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Although my companion Sherlock Holmes has been kind enough to publicly opine that I am incapable of duplicity, the truth of the matter is that I find concealing information from the general populace quite simple. It is only from Holmes himself that I find keeping a secret so damnably impossible.
Generally, this is of no concern to me. Holmes may enjoy his privacy, and I have no doubt that there is much in his life even I shall never know of, but there is little I wish to conceal from him. However, this is not to say that I wish to be completely open to Holmes' scrutiny. Indeed, there are a small number of things which I would far prefer him to remain unaware of.
After the events I recorded in "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange," I had been rather more distracted than usual. Although it was quite unlikely, I had hoped that Holmes would not notice my absent manner, or would at the least attribute it to some unrelated concern or another, for the true reasons for my distraction were quite embarrassing.
It is not merely for the fact that he brings such intriguing work, apt to incite the interest of both Holmes and the reading public, that I have taken notes on many of Hopkins' cases. Much of the reason that these cases have stood out in my mind have to do with the young inspector himself.
He is--to put it in blunt terms--most unmistakably and helplessly enamoured with my companion. Indeed, while Hopkins is usually an exceedingly competent inspector, and has shown great promise in following Holmes' methods, he is more often than not rendered completely useless when within any proximity of my friend. In the beginning, I merely found Hopkins' infatuation charming and of some amusement--doubly so for the fact that Holmes, for all of his deductive prowess, could not fathom the true reason for his protégé's clumsiness and blushes until I told him.
Needless to say, I very much enjoyed needling Holmes on this. For most men, a young upstart with romantic intents on his lover would result in no small amount of stress and discomfort. I, however, am most assured in the security of my place at Holmes' side, and Hopkins' fixation became troublesome to me for another reason altogether.
Quite simply, I could not stop envisioning what a pleasant image the two would make, were Holmes to return Hopkins' interest. I must admit that, on those nights Holmes was away following some lead without me, I took great pleasure in these imagined scenarios. Alone in our bed, my hand stroking my own flesh, I would picture the two of them in all manner of positions: on the hearthrug in our sitting room, Hopkins with his mouth around my partner's straining prick; in our bed with Hopkins cuffed, Holmes tormenting him with hands and tongue; or even in the grand dining-room of some noble client, young Hopkins disheveled in his shirtsleeves, trousers cast aside, with Holmes--his dress only displaced enough to facilitate a quick joining--tangling his fingers in the inspector's hair as he rode him to completion.
These were my most private fantasies, and were nothing I should ever have thought of sharing with Holmes. After all, it was hardly as if I honestly expected Holmes to enact any of them. Instead, I kept them close for my own enjoyment, to entertain myself on those nights Holmes was either away, or disinclined towards carnal pleasure.
However, as was typical, my companion found me out soon enough. I should not have even idly hoped he should miss my distraction that morning, for, as was typical of a day following that of a case that had us running to and fro, we were spending the day cloistered to ourselves. With such proximity, we were hardly finished with breakfast before he commented on my behaviour.
I had been absently staring at the far wall as Holmes read the paper, willing myself to cease visualizing Holmes brushing the papers off of the table and bending Hopkins over it, when Holmes fixed me with his sharp gaze.
"You may as well give in and tell me of it."
The manner in which I startled was hopefully not too guilty. "Tell you of what, Holmes?"
He flashed one of his more charming smiles at me, and responded, "Well, of whatever has you in such a... contemplative... mood. As you have voiced nothing more to me about this case than your desire to one day publicize it, and that is not quite the expression you so charmingly acquire when casting for romantic phrases in which to imprison my work, I can only assume there is something about yesterday which you are keeping from me."
Flushing under his scrutiny, I quickly defended myself with the first thought that came to mind. "Perhaps," I said, mustering up a reproachful tone, "I am merely concerned about that impromptu trial you held here."
I could tell immediately from Holmes' smirk that he had expected just such a cover.
"Hardly that, Watson. Such subterfuge is unbecoming to you, you know. I know very well that when exasperated by my actions, you have a tendency to both avoid eye contact and to worry your right sleeve. While I admit that you have been gracing the wall with more attention than you have given me this morning, you have not been engaging in the latter habit. No, you are just as content with my edict as you were last night. Indeed, the expression you have been assuming for the better part of this morning is one with which I am even more familiar."
He looked searchingly at me, obviously expecting a reply. I was most determined not to help him along in this interrogation, however, and said nothing. Although I may have been able to scrape together a different screen, I knew Holmes would easily see through that one as well, and would only be the more suspicious.
With a short sound of exasperation, he leaned towards me. "Come, Watson! You know that above all things, I cannot stand an omission in the facts. You are clearly... fantasising... about something, and as I am still in possession of my dressing gown, I can exclude myself. Honestly, I think it is for the best if you inform me immediately. It is not as if I shall be horrified," and here he flashed me a quick smile, "At least, I should hope I would not be."
I knew he would be persistent in the matter, but still I tried to dismiss his deductions. "Holmes, I am not 'fantasising' about anyone. Now, can you just let this go?"
"But clearly you are," cried he, "Whyever else would you ask to change the topic?"
Though I began to respond, he cut me off before I could do so.
"Is it Lady Brackenstall?"
I straightened in my chair. "Do not be absurd, Holmes. That poor--"
With a laugh, he interrupted me once more, quick as he was to ease me. "Ha, I thought I knew my Watson. Fond though you may be of the gentle sex, your chivalry would prevent you from fixating on even a creature as fair as Lady Brackenstall. No, indeed." He appeared to ponder the situation for a short while, then continued, "Perhaps, then, it was our lion of a sailor, Captain Crocker? I fancy I saw a hint of appreciation in your eye as he so majestically filled our doorway."
Here, I could only chuckle: Crocker was indeed a powerfully handsome man, but Holmes was quite off his mark. Although I said nothing, he could immediately tell as such from my reaction, and he carried on with his single-minded inquiry.
"Who, then? It could hardly have been Theresa, and I also quite doubt it to be the red-headed porter. As for Hopkins, we have worked with him in the past and..." Here, he trailed off, and sat up quite eagerly, the glint in his eyes showing me--as much as I may dread it--that he had hit upon his solution.
"Really, Watson. Hopkins?"
I blushed once more, and felt as if there was little else I was capable of that morning. "Holmes," I defended, "It is most assuredly not what you are imagining."
His sharp eyes searched my face, as intent as he ever was in any investigation. Yet I, who knew his moods as well as he mine, could detect the mirthfulness in that keen gaze.
"Hum. Certainly, I can tell you are being truthful in that. And it is just as well for you, Watson--after all, it is you who is so very fond of reminding me of where friend Hopkins' heart lies."
He sat back once more, and became lost in thought. After a moment, he began openly musing about this mystery. "You are not thinking of committing any lewd acts with a member of the Yard, that is a fact. Yet, your thoughts most certainly were straying towards Hopkins. During the case, you seemed to behave as is ordinary towards him, and indeed, I was glad for the fact that you seemed to have tired of your wearisome habit of constantly calling his infatuation to my attention."
Suddenly, with a cry, he sat upright once more. Knowing what was forthcoming, I made an attempt to grasp the paper to hide my rapidly reddening face. Holmes swiftly sprung to yank the paper from me, and grasped my hands, kneeling eagerly before my chair. "Oh, don't be absurd; you know you'd have to leave England to escape this. You... You are aroused by the idea of my corruption of Hopkins!"
"It's not as if he wouldn't enjoy it," I countered, determined to salvage some degree of dignity, and earned a short joyful bark of laughter from Holmes.
"My dear Watson. I would have never taken you to be the type of man who lies abed, harbouring a secret attraction to being cuckolded."
I shook my head, for the fantasy did seem all the more absurd when Holmes spoke of it thus. "Holmes, you know as well as I that sexual desire very rarely follows any form of logic."
In response, he only smiled, and rubbed my palms with his thumbs in his calming manner. When he spoke, it was in that low, persuasive tone of his, which never fails to stir me. "Quite. But now that I have found you out, I simply must insist you fill me in with the particulars of these daydreams of yours at some later date."
Reaching down, I began pressing the dressing gown from his shoulders, and I leaned forward to kiss him with hunger. While I knew it would now be I who was to be relentlessly teased about the young inspector, I was pleased Holmes was not mortified, and was a touch breathless in my reply after we broke apart. "Naturally, Holmes. You would have it out of me whether or not I wished it."
"Mmm, poor Watson," he murmured absently, his attention already far more concentrated on the task of freeing my stiffening prick. I groaned in response, fiercely aroused by his position at my feet, and avidly looking forward to occupying much of the day in these athletic pursuits.
I had thought the conversation to be at an end, but Holmes, his face at a maddeningly small distance from my groin, looked up quickly.
"Still, I must say that it would hardly be fair to me, were I to cave into these desires of yours without any compensation."
Sighing with impatience, I returned, "Naturally, Holmes. For God's sake, you do not really think that I expect you to..."
"After all," he interjected once again, "It has been some number of years now I have hoped to catch you in the bath, performing that delectable manoeuvre with your tongue upon Inspector Lestrade."