Conjugal Visits
by Alia
Notes

Lying very still, I wait until I hear the familiar sounds of Holmes' breathing level out, signaling his final descent into what I hope will be a dreamless and undisturbed sleep before I gather my nightshirt about me and then rise carefully from his narrow bed.

The room is cold and I immediately miss the heat of his body, the strength of his arms and press of his flesh against my own. He had been almost insatiable tonight, I muse - ravenous in a way that I rarely have the good fortune to enjoy, and which made me truly wish that I could stay with him instead of having to steal away before the sun rose.

In fact, my dearest appears so peaceful in sleep that it is easy for me to forget that the man who now lies bonelessly sated is the same one whose mind is constantly working, who is forever challenging and conquering the criminal element of our fair city without fear, or much to my aggravation, his own safety.

I stand shivering as I look down at him, thanking the Heavens that I have him as I marvel at his undeniable grace and the usually sharp features that are now notably softened with slumber. He does not move, remaining blissfully unaware of my gaze while I make certain that I have not inadvertently woken him. As soon as I am assured that I have not, I then bend quietly to retrieve my dressing gown from the floor so that I might ward myself against the growing chill of my bones. I continue my vigil over Holmes as I reach down, but my searching hand encounters something other than just our customary collection of gowns and slippers beside the bed.

Standing up right again, and on closer inspection I realise that what I have found is the tallow stick Holmes had used to ease our joining tonight. I shiver at the thought of it and how very adventurous he has become over time. For just holding the rigid length now sends another thrill of excitement through me as I recall the sight of him pressing his sweet lips to its tip before he covered it with salve and then slowly pushed it inside of me. I had closed my eyes as he had, preferring at the time to give myself completely over to his desires and to simply wait until he had satisfied his curiosity. Such a commentary he had provided for me while I allowed his explorations that it had hardly been necessary for me to see what he was doing. But even though I had not seen it occur I know from the ache deep inside of me that the object in my hands bore the evidence of coupling and it would have to be disposed of before morning.

There is no question of responsibility; I would take care of it as I always did, and as Holmes trusted me to do so.

Given the nature of our most intimate relationship, we are both well aware that the utmost discretion must always be observed. To me, Sherlock Holmes is my dearest friend and companion, but to the rest of humanity, he is the world's only consulting detective and I, his loyal and ever-present biographer. For both our sakes, our public faces must be maintained at all times. No hint of true feelings can ever seep beyond these walls unless we wish to spend out latter years in separate cells of Reading Goal. And it is with only that in mind that I don my dressing gown without further hesitation, concealing the stick in one of its deep pockets as I cross to the wash stand.

The candle Holmes had lit when we had retired for the night still flickers from it's perch atop the dresser near by, providing me with sufficient light with which to complete my ablutions, and once I have I lift it carefully from its resting place and prepare to leave.

Turning back to the man on the bed one more time before I must leave him, I am momentarily disappointed to discover hooded gray eyes watching me. "Sleep well my dear, Watson," he whispers to me as those same eyes flutter and close once more.

I don't reply, choosing instead to accept his well wishes in silence. I turn to then raise the latch on the door and slip soundlessly from his room.