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A Fly's Foot-fall

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It is not a widely enough appreciated fact, I believe, that Sherlock Holmes has a tendency to giggle. He is a masterful man, able to demand the attention of a room full of Scotland Yard detectives, and on the scent of a case he can become almost inhuman in his focus and his intelligence. He processes information twice as fast as most people do, and sees meaning in every detail, and he takes his profession very seriously. Catch him off guard, though, with a particularly good witticism, or an affectionate admission, or a simple kiss on the neck, and he giggles like a schoolgirl. He does it unashamedly, too, his amusement all genuine, and so I strive to bring that giggle forth as often as I can.

The only time his propensity to giggle is even the slightest bit unwelcome is in the middle of the night in a rural country inn, when the bedrooms are all doubles, the landlord and his wife sleep in the next room, and Sherlock Holmes has just solved a murder.

"Hush," I hiss, covering his mouth with my hand while he laughs. His fingers are tight on my ribs, and his naked body stretches long and lean beneath mine. The blankets mounded over us seem to muffle the sound, but I know if I were outside them rather than in, I would still be able to hear everything. He wriggles, tongue flicking out to wet my palm. I let go and he sucks in a deep breath.

"Sorry, John," he whispers. I can't see a thing in the dark, I can only feel where his body touches mine. I can hear his ragged breathing, of course, and smell the thick, rich scent of his arousal. It has been days since we've made love, and while a few days of abstinence never torments me, the coming together again after any period of time is like stepping into a riptide. I am carried away on my desire for him, and he returns my affections with enthusiasm, provided he is sufficiently satisfied with the intellectual conclusion of his work.

"Good lord, man," I murmur, pressing my words into the column of his neck-- a lucky guess-- "anyone who heard you would think you didn't care our innkeeper was just on the other side of that wall."

He gasps, his fingers clenching on my ribs, and his hips press up against mine. He is laughing again, breath hissing out his nose, and after a moment he has to stifle it in the crook of his elbow.

"You're a menace to society," I tell him, sliding down the bed a little. Feeling with my hands and my mouth, I find my way to his left nipple and begin to give it its due attention. His hand comes down on the back of my head, fingers in my hair, and his breathing gets slow and deep as he arches up into my caresses. I lick and suck until the nipple under my lips is stiff and tender; meanwhile I worry the other between finger and thumb. Holmes is squirming, biting back his whimpers, and when I switch hand and mouth he groans aloud.

"Holmes!" I scold, barely detaching myself from his chest.

"Sorry," he gasps. I feel a rush of cold air as he pulls the blankets down off his head.

I lift my face. In the moonlight now I can see his wide, dark eyes; his fine, high cheekbones; his thin, expressive mouth. His mouth is open, gulping air, and then he pulls the blankets up again. It's too hot under here, but it's deliciously intimate to be surrounded by his body heat and his heady aroma. I start to move down again, my mouth watering, and suddenly he's giggling again.

"Ticklish?" I ask, fingers dancing up his ribs. I know the answer perfectly well.

"John, stop, no," he begs, with such genuine despair that I do. His cock is bumping against my sternum, and I am lightheaded with wanting. Perhaps that is the heat.

I kiss his tip, finding a grip on his prick as I settle between his legs. I'm curled up at the bottom of the bed, hunched over myself, one elbow braced on the bed my his hip. It's not comfortable, but it's worth it for the high-pitched whine that escapes Holmes when I run my tongue around his glans.

"Oh, god yes," he says, a little too loud. "Your mouth."

My "shh!" is indistinct, but the message is conveyed. The next noise I hear Holmes make is muffled, probably by a mouthful of quilt.

I'm sweating and my own prick is rigid; in this position it rubs against my own belly and my bollocks hang heavy between my spread thighs. Holmes's hand finds my head again, stroking my hair and carding it away from my eyes.

I slip him deeper into my mouth, bobbing up and down as I suck his tip. His cock head fits so neatly into my mouth, and the thick salt taste of him has my gut clenching with desire. My hand, wrapped around his shaft, moves up and down as my head does, getting slicker with every pass. I cup his bollocks with my other hand.

Holmes's voice surprises me again, loud and indiscreet, as he says, "Put your fingers in me."

I pull off. "Absolutely not."

He goes still. "What?"

"You know how you get," I whisper.

He yanks the blankets down again so we can see one another. "I can be quiet!"

"You certainly haven't proved that yet."

"Please, John." He pouts at me. His fingers in my hair are gentle, coaxing. "I'm not asking to you to put me on my stomach and fuck me through the mattress--" The image, and the frankness with which it is delivered, makes my blood pressure spike-- "I just want…" He bites his lip. "I promise I'll be quiet."

He's not lying, but he's never succeeded with that promise.

"Do you have anything to… ease the way?" I whisper.

"The jar is in your bag."

I glare at him. He giggles, pleased with himself. I sigh. "Go on, then."

He clambers out from under me and hurries across the room, bare arse pale in the moonlit room. He rifles for a moment, during which time I stretch out my limbs and shift my position. When he returns, he pauses at the sight of me on my back, halfway down the bed, knees bent and blankets pushed down to the foot. He narrows his eyes rather than ask what I'm about.

"Knees here," I say, indicating either side of my ribs. "Face the pillows."

He licks his lips, considering, and begins to smile as he hands me the jar of salve and climbs aboard. His cock hangs in my face, and I wait until he's settled on his elbows, a pillow bunched under his head. Then I lick his cock, working my tongue around his slippery head. At the same time, I fumble the jar open and slick two fingers.

"Oh," he says, at the first touch against his hole.

I release him. "Holmes."

"Sorry," he whispers, burying his face in the pillow. Muffled, I can still hear him say, "Oh, yes," as I begin to massage the muscle.

Incorrigible, I think, but of course my mouth is too busy now to say it aloud. His hips push forward, sinking his cock into my mouth. At this angle I hardly have to do any work, just keep him from choking me. With one hand on his backside, I encourage him to rock; my finger on his sphincter presses in. He groans and pushes back, and it slips in to the first knuckle. He freezes, his body clamping down, but I suckle his tip and rub his stones with my thumb, and after a moment he relaxes. This brings forth another moan, and this time I can't help murmuring along with him. His cock twitches and I taste a new spill of brine. My own prick, neglected, jerks hopefully against my belly.

I stroke the back of his thigh, pressing my finger deeper, and soon I can work it shallowly in and out, fucking him as he fucks me. My mouth is stretched wide, his cock just touching the back of my throat when he thrusts in.

"Deeper," he moans, entirely defeating the purpose of the pillows. As I predicted, he cannot keep this particular promise. I oblige him anyway, pressing my finger in as deep as it will go, and his whole body shakes. "Oh, there!"

I push his hip up. "For heaven's sake, man."

He buries his face in the pillows again, giggling, and spreads his knees a little wider.

"I know how to fuck you," I mutter, rubbing his prick against my lips. "Have some faith."

He trembles with laughter, and waggles his hips. I screw my finger inside him, changing the muffled chortling to a gasp of pleasure. I do it again, for that would be the next thing he'd demand. He is gratifyingly sensitive, inside and out, and I can read the twitches of his body as easily as he reads a woman's marital situation. It's not a skill I consider publishing, though I admit to owning a few of that sort of book.

He'd be begging for a second finger now, and in a way he is: humming and moaning into the pillow he has stuffed between his teeth and rocking his hips back onto my hand. I pull my finger out to introduce its neighbor and he shudders from head to toe.

I wish we were home, so that I could enjoy his vocal appreciation. Here we might have some measure of anonymity, but there we are surrounded by brick walls and our selectively deaf housekeeper pays us no mind. It wouldn't do for gossip to follow us back: that Sherlock Holmes shouts the house down when his biographer fingers him up the bum.

I snort at the thought and have to pull away from his prick to laugh into his thigh.

"What," he demands, breathless. "John, what?"

"Nothing," I say, "hush."

He harrumphs and I can hear the pillow rustling. When I fit him back between my lips, his moan is reduced to a rumble.

I can taste how close he is. He's riding the high of the solved case and it makes him eager. His prick is thickening in my mouth and his whining is almost continuous. The muscles in his backside flex as he fucks my mouth. My fingers work in and out of him faster and deeper; it would be glorious right now to be atop him with my prick in place of my fingers, but he's too near his peak to acquiesce to a change of position now. He's gasping and groaning into the pillow, tensing all over, his arse squeezing down on my fingers.

Everything stops for a moment, as he reaches the top of the crest: he goes silent, his hips still, every muscle in his body taut. Then my mouth is full of semen and his moan is so loud I can tell he's lifted his head up. I can picture his face. He muffles the next cry as his cock pulses, and his seed spills out the corners of my mouth.

He's still shaking when I pull away, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and easing my fingers out of his arse. He pushes himself up to his knees, sitting back on my chest. His prick is still hard; it bobs between us. He rubs both hands over his face, down his body, and transfers his touch to my chest and neck.

"Move up," he says, hoarse from shouting. He swings his leg off and I haul myself up the bed. He sits back down astride my thighs and spits in his hand. His touch is hot and wet and my own excitement is enough to make his strokes smooth and fast. He bends over me, resting on his elbow, and kisses my sticky, salty mouth, his tongue plunging deep between my lips. He moans and I can't help but echo him. "Shh," he warns, smiling.

"Holmes," I gasp, already on the verge of my own orgasm. Sucking him always does such things to me.

He kisses me again, jerking me hard and fast between our bodies. His other hand is in my hair again, holding me to be kissed. I grasp at his sides, my mouth open wide and hungry.

"That's it," he mutters, between kisses, "come on, darling."

His voice is so rough, reduced to a whisper, and I think, his prick in my throat and he still sounds like that. The smugness drives my orgasm to the point of inevitability, and I spurt over his long, white hand with a moan. He barely silences me in time, and I am certain by now that we've been heard. How could we not be?

His touch gentles as I come down. He has to climb off to find something to clean me up with. I miss the warmth of his body, but I have semen striping my belly and drying on my face so I let him go.

The cloth he brings back is damp from the wash basin and cold as ice, but I'd rather suffer now than risk riding the train home with the evidence of our tryst still upon my skin. Once we're both wiped down, Holmes discards the rag on the floor and draws the blankets back over us. We lay in silence, entwined, still unable to stop touching one another. Around us, the inn is quiet. A dog barks somewhere out in the village. No one is pounding on the door, demanding to know what's going on in here. It's a miracle.

"If you're going to be so bloody noisy," I say finally, "we're going to have to start waiting until we get home."

"They wouldn't arrest a London detective for indecent behavior," Holmes sighs, tracing patterns on my chest.

"I think that's exactly what they'd arrest a London detective for," I reply.

He giggles and tucks his face into my neck. "I'll consider it," he says.

"No you won't," I say, wrapping him up in my arms.

"Hm," he says, settling in to sleep. He yawns and hugs me tighter. "No, I probably won't."