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Smelling Salts

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“You’re up early, Watson.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Change of weather. Joints a bit stiff. I thought I’d make myself useful and sort through these notes from the Baskerville affair.”

“Quite a case that was.”

“Yes, it’ll make a fine little story, I think.”

“I quite agree. Uh, Watson? I say, steady, there, old man.”

“I need a…a…”

Holmes caught Watson in his arms.


“UH!”

Watson gave a shout of alarm and immediately turned his startled gaze to Holmes’s hands: in the left was a tiny bottle, in the right a tiny cork.

“What kind of infernal smelling salts are those, Holmes?”

Holmes was looming over Watson. He replied evenly,

“My own invention and, like any potent treatment, kept under lock and key until required.”

“They smell like…”

“Crystalised, concentrated Alpha pheromone?”

“By Jove, yes!” exclaimed Watson. “And not just any Alpha’s pheromone! Yours!” He frowned, then began to mutter, “Oh, Holmes, I think I’m…”

“Yes,” said Holmes soothingly.

Watson reached a hand up to his own neck. His fingers felt along his undone collar, then slid beneath his shirt to the ridge of his shoulder.

“Oh, Holmes. The welt is definitely there.”

Holmes nodded. “No wonder you slept so poorly, my dear man. It wasn’t just the weather outside that was changing. Your own barometre was in flux as well.” He stood up.

Watson looked about and found himself extended lengthwise on the sofa. Then he shook his head and snorted.

“Quite the nuisance, the timing of this, Holmes. You’ve just begun that new case!”

We’ve just begun it,” corrected Holmes. “I’m afraid the mystery of the colonial templar wolves will have to wait.” Holmes smiled and bent low and placed a chaste, but affectionate kiss on Watson’s cheek. “My Omega and my Bowell are much more important than any case,” he added sweetly.

Watson tried to harrumph but turned a bit pink instead. He gave Holmes an up-and-down glance and, noting that the other was wearing nothing but a dressing gown, said, “You readied yourself right quick, I see.”

“I’ve done more than that, my dear man. I confess you’ve been out for a quite a while. I informed Mrs. Hudson of the circumstances, and she has left ample provisions and linen,” he turned and waved to the two large hampers by the door, “and, quite prudently, gone to visit her sister for a couple of days. I’ve dispatched telegrams to Scotland Yard and others letting them know that, until further notice, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are not available to assist them on cases. I took no liberties with your own person, but, yes, I made certain that I would be completely at your disposal once you were roused from your stupor.”

“Here, help me up, Holmes,” said Watson as he struggled to a sitting position. Once he was on his feet, he strode clumsily to the hampers. He tipped the lid of one open and nodded. “Well done on the foodstuffs.”

“Thank you. Shall we retire to your bedroom?”

“Uh…”

Watson cocked his head sideways as if listening for a far-off sound. Then he withdrew a handkerchief and began to mop his brow. He turned, took two steps, and slumped slightly, bracing himself with one hand on the back of an oversized, but stalwart armchair. “I don’t think I can wait that long, Holmes. Door’s locked, I presume?”

“Of course, dear fellow,” said Holmes, flying to Watson’s side.

Watson fumbled with his own trousers and drawers while Holmes moved behind him and lifted Watson’s dressing gown by the lower hem. Holmes’s own dressing gown was tented, and at the point of parting of its own accord from his jutting erection.

“Yours is a stronger scent than that of any smelling salts, Watson, and infinitely more compelling.”

“Oh, god, don’t natter, Holmes. Mount me, man, now!”

Watson bent forward, folding himself over the chair, reaching with both hands for the far arm just as Holmes, having shrugged out of his own dressing gown altogether, wrapped a hand around his hard prick and easily slipped it into Watson’s gaping, dripping, thoroughly loosened hole.

“Oh, Holmes, thank you,” breathed Watson when half of Holmes’s length was sheathed.

“Thank you, my dear man. With your own pungent scent in the air, I find myself needing to fill you as badly as you need to be filled. May I?”

“To the hilt, my good man, and, as the Bible says, forthwith!”

“I don’t know that the Good Book ever had this in mind,” groaned Holmes as he bottomed out.

“Well, Providence did see fit to endow you like Balaam’s ass, Holmes. Now for god’s sake, do get on with it!”

Holmes began to thrust, then he made a noise of frustration. “It’d be so much better if…” He climbed up on the arm of the chair, straddling Watson.

“Careful, Holmes! I don’t think Queen Anne’s limbs were meant for this!”

“Oh, no?” replied Holmes with a grin. “But how’s this feel?” He curled his hips like a snake as he thrust. “Better?”

“Oh, the devil take me, that’s good, that’s bloody good! But how can you even manage it? It must be cat-like grace to go with your cat-like cleanliness!”

Holmes chuckled. “Or nine lives,” he remarked. He was, indeed, perched very precariously, but the chair did not show signs of splintering, so he kept up his thrusting until his breath and Watson’s were no more than a duet of ragged pants.

“As good as the needle, eh?” grunted Watson.

“Better, Watson. Much, much better than the needle. And have I told you lately how handsome you look in a Norfolk jacket?”

Watson groaned. “Don’t flatter me, Holmes. There’ll be ample time for pillow talk.” He groaned again, this time with a hint of something sourer than pleasure.

“I’m sorry, Watson. I know it must be deuced uncomfortable.”

“It’d be more uncomfortable if I wasn’t impaled on your weighted single stick, old chap.”

Holmes snorted. “I wish I could help more but I’m in danger of losing my balance and becoming a Holmes-shaped stain on Mrs. Hudson’s rug. Can’t you take yourself in hand, old man?”

“I’ll try. But it’s better if it’s…”

Watson lifted his hand, palm up. Holmes bent his head and spat in it.

“You are going to bring the curtain down on this act soon, aren’t you, Holmes?”

“Yes, Watson, I’m too far gone to do otherwise. Then we’ll move to the comfort of your bed.”

“Well, you know what you always say, ‘Come to crisis at once if convenient…”

Holmes gave a hard, deep thrust and answered with a hoarse laugh.

“…if inconvenient, come all the same.”


“Sorry I can’t provide more imaginative positioning,” mumbled Watson when they were in bed, Watson on his side and Holmes plastered to Watson’s back. “Even with the pheromones, my war injuries still prevent the acrobatics common to my kind.”

“There is none ‘of your kind,’ Watson. And who needs acrobatics, when I have a strong, courageous, stout-hearted bedfellow. I said it to Henry Baskerville, and I meant it: ‘no man who is better worth having at your side when you’re in a tight place.’”

“Oh, Holmes, speaking of tight places…”

“Yes, let me see to yours.”

Holmes rolled Watson forward. Watson bent his his leg and lifted his knee, and Holmes slipped his hard prick inside Watson’s hole. “Better?”

“Much. And as the drunk said to the barman, ‘Come ‘em keepin’!’”

Holmes lifted his upper body and rolled his lower body. He began to thrust slow and deep.

“Oh,” sighed Watson into the pillow. “Much better.”

Holmes only slowed his thrusting to lean forward and lick at Watson’s heat welt, a raised, pink mark on the ridge of his left shoulder, and whisper simple endearments.

“Good Omega. Good, good Omega. Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

As soon as Holmes had found his release, he turned Watson on his back.

“It really is a shame, Watson, that you didn’t take that old peddler up on his offer of the mouth organ. Now, you’re going to see what you’re missing!”

And with that, Holmes slid down Watson’s body and swallowed his neglected prick.

“Oh, and what a pretty song it makes,” mumbled Watson. He looked down with a lopsided grin. Then he spread his legs as wide as was comfortable and rested both hands on the back of Holmes’s head as the latter bobbed and sucked. “Yes, a dandy song. Easy to remember, too. Only one word.” Watson cleared his throat and began to sing in a soft, lovely baritone.

“Holmes. Holmes. Holmes, holmes, holmes…”

Holmes pulled off and looked up.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that voice.”

“Not since the vicar was a ferret.”

Holmes hummed. “That was a most curious case…”

“It’s not an invitation to reminisce, Holmes!” said Watson, a bit peevishly.

“Right you are.”

Holmes resumed his ministrations until Watson’s feet were planted on the bed and his hips were thrusting up and his seed was making its way down Holmes’s throat.

“Oh, Holmes.”

Holmes looked up. Watson looked down.

Their eyes met, and a soft companionable silence settled until Watson said,

“And the zither, Holmes?”

“I thought you’d never ask, my dear Watson.”

Holmes moved away to allow Watson to roll onto his stomach.

“I think we haven’t need of the perfume,” said Holmes as he looked down and openly admired the way his prick spread the lips of Watson’s hole, then disappeared into the tight, wet cavity. A mixture of secretions and ejaculate ran down the back of Watson’s thighs.

“No, indeed. And I shall be very cross if you introduce those special smelling salts of yours to anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Holmes ran a finger through the oozing mess then licked it. “Watson, once I finish, might I, well, drink from the trough, so to speak?”

“Capital idea, Holmes.”


Holmes’s tongue was buried deep inside Watson. Watson’s face was buried in a pillow, his cries and whimpering mostly muffled.

Holmes licked at the back of Watson’s thighs, the strip of skin from hole to sacs, and the underside of the sacs themselves.

Finally, Watson turned his head and shouted, “Now, Holmes—and as rough as you dare!”

Holmes obliged.

After Holmes spent himself, he felt Watson’s body slacken into a doze. He set to work at once, cleaning Watson and himself as well as was possible, then, like a seasoned hospital nurse, rolling new linen beneath Watson’s slumbering form.

When he returned to Watson’s side, sleep instantly overtaking him.


Holmes woke to anxious whimpering. He carefully curled ‘round Watson.

Watson’s eyes were closed, but the rise and fall of his chest was quick and threatening to become irregular.

Without a word, Holmes immediately mounted Watson and sank his prick into Watson’s hole.

Watson sighed contentedly but did not wake.

Holmes soon felt the change. His thrusting became impatient, demanding, almost violent. It reached a crescendo, and then stopped.

“Mm?”

“Just the knot,” said Holmes softly.

“Mm. Yes. God, Holmes,” Watson’s lips smacked rather vulgarly, “you’re a bit of a naughty Alpha, aren’t you?”

“Just a bit,” replied Holmes with a grin as his over-swollen prick shot stream after stream into Watson. “I missed you, you know, during the Baskerville case.” He caressed Watson’s back and shoulders.

“And I, you, my dear man. And I, you.”

Holmes began to lick and nuzzle along the nape of Watson’s neck.

“That cat-like cleanliness doesn’t stop with your own self, I see,” said Watson.

“Do you mind being my kitten, Watson?”

Watson harrumphed, then said quietly, “Not at all, my dearest man.” He cleared his throat, then added, “And as soon as Nature sees fit to untether us, I shall demand a thorough scenting. And, well, perhaps, another serenade on your lovely mouth organ.”

“Now who’s being naughty?” teased Holmes.

Watson chuckled.


“UH!”

Watson huffed and opened his eyes. Holmes was, once more, hovering over him with a tiny bottle in one hand and a tiny cork in the other.

“I say, those aren’t…?”

“No,” said Holmes, who was fully dressed. “These are the old-fashioned kind. Lestrade will be ‘round in an hour with an esteemed colleague from Warszawa to give us an update on the new case. You can, of course, have a lie-in, but I thought that you’d prefer to be present as the affair seemed to interest you.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Watson. “The, uh,” he looked about him and sniffed the air, “the siege is over, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my dear man.”

“You really want me there, Holmes? I mean, I’m your man.”

“Always, Watson. You are my man, my Omega, my Boswell, my faithful companion, my whetstone, my fixed point in a changing age. Poets will be writing songs about you for generations to come, and if anyone writes a song about me, it will be because of you. Now, there’s hot water for washing.”

Holmes gallantly offered Watson his arm.

“Now that’s music to my ears, my dear man,” said Watson as he moved to the edge of the bed and then, taking Holmes’s arm, stood up, “unlike the noise made by infernal violin of yours. Lead on.”