A Medical Man

by Fabula Rasa

"Hmmph."

The shuffle of papers in the quiet room was punctuated only by Watson's occasional noises over his journal. Holmes glanced up once or twice, in brief annoyance, which his friend did not remark.

"Hm."

"Watson, what on earth are you reading that has captivated you so? Or are you experiencing some sort of intestinal distress?"

"Wha-- oh, I'm sorry, Holmes. It's just this article-- so very interesting. I have determined to make a study of the field of psychology, and I fear I am making little headway, but I am fascinated nonetheless."

"Indeed? Psychology? Are you planning to turn alienist on me, Watson?"

"Oh, heavens, Holmes, no. The stuff is obscure as mist to me, in the main. But I have been reflecting. So many of the cases we have dealt with have been less about physical evidence or clues, and more about the nature of the human heart. It is a subject I, for one, would like to know more about. I feel, as a medical man, I ought to know more than I do."

"Watson. I must strongly object to such a romantic view of my endeavours. Do not dismiss 'physical evidence and clues' with a wave of your hand. The nature of the human heart, indeed. On the whole, physical evidence is a much less grisly line of inquiry."

"There's your pessimism all over again, Holmes."

Silence reigned in the room again. After a while Holmes laid aside his book and stretched his long legs out on the sofa, cushioning his neck. "My head is beginning to ache dreadfully. Watson, why don't you read me some of your journal there and see if it successfully induces sleep. It has never failed me before."

"Well, I very much doubt this particular article would interest you."

"Why is that?"

"For one thing, it is all about that human heart you claim to despise. For another. . . well, it is rather specialised."

"Specialised? How so? Do you fear it will elude my understanding?"

Watson gave a short laugh. "No, Holmes. I've never yet encountered the thing that does. But it might offend your sensibilites."

"Oh? Watson, you intrigue me. Your article must be about intimate behaviour, if it can call a blush to the cheek of a medical man. Pray let me hear its title."

Watson cleared his throat. "Ah. Well. All right then. 'Sexual Inversion as an Innate Morbid Phenomenon.' By an Italian by the name of Lombroso. Are you familiar with the clinical term homosexual?"

"I have come across it, yes."

"Dr. Lombroso is debating the innate, versus the acquired phenomenon."

"Morbid."

"What's that?"

"I said, you are neglecting the term 'morbid,' which your author appends to the phenomenon."

"Of course. At any rate, he is taking issue with the traditional distinction-- that is, the distinction made in recent years by clinicians of the field-- between acquired and innate homosexuality, arguing that both manifestations of the condition ought to be treated equally."

"Oh? And what does he think that treatment ought to be?"

"I will quote. 'Our society offers no clearer example of its brutality and callous insensitivity to the suffering of others than when it insists on the imprisonment and public shaming of these unfortunate individuals. With rational and careful medical care, many of these persons can lead normal, healthy lives. It is to the asylum that we ought to be sending these miserable folk, not the prison.' He has made quite a study, you see, of the criminal temperament, and he argues that homosexuality ought to be classified as a kind of criminal insanity and subject to the same compassion that we afford the mentally afflicted."

"I see."

"Yes, very interesting stuff. Some of the groundwork of his thesis was laid, he acknowledges, by Dr. Krafft-Ebing, who first observed that 'mental abnormalities and real disturbances of the intellect are commoner with homosexuals than in the case of other men.'"

"Indeed?"

"He it was who first made the distinction between acquired and innate inversion. And of course it was Dr. Tarnovsky who hypothesized that homosexuals were born as a result of the nervous disturbances of their parents -- for example, epilepsy, brain disease, insanity, hysteria, alcoholism, syphilis, pneumonia, exhaustion or anemia. From my point of view as a medical man, you can imagine how fascinated I am."

"Naturally so."

"But what I don't understand, is how few of these articles address the moral isssue at hand."

"Oh? Surely, Watson, you have only to apply to the local rector for enlightenment on the subject?"

"Well," he shifted uncomfortably, "yes. But I don't mean precisely that. What I mean is, how is it that individuals in the obvious grip of mental and moral affliction can be at the same time capable of such clear and rational thought?"

Holmes was silent.

"That is. . . I have never spoken to you, have I, of Rufus McVaine, with whom I served in Afghanistan?"

Holmes shook his head.

"He was what the experts on the subject would term a sexual invert. He engaged in. . unseemly practices with some of the native men in the regiment."

Holmes raised his eyebrows, but offered no comment.

"The odd thing was. . . he was one of the kindest, most decent, most honourable and courteous individuals you could hope to meet. Really a model officer. He was found out, of course, and court-martialed prior to his decommissioning. But since then I have sometimes reflected how peculiar a thing it was that his affliction did not manifest itself in any other regard. An insane individual is likely to be insane at all hours of the day and in any situation. Why should we offer the label insanity to that which we find merely distasteful?"

He glanced at Holmes as though expecting a response, but when none was forthcoming he continued. "How is that a man can combine the highest instincst and feelings with actions that sink him to the very depths? For clearly, only an individual hopelessly depraved in mind, heart, and life, could stoop to such base activities."

Holmes stood in one graceful movement, snatched the journal, and tossed it into the fire. He re-settled on the sofa as though nothing untoward had occurred, arms crossed peacefully on his chest. Watson gaped in astonishment.

"Holmes! What is the meaning of this? What sort of fit has seized you, that you feel compelled to make away with my journal in so violent a fashion?"

Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "Pray, think nothing of it, Watson. It was only the deranged action of a man mentally abnormal, intellectually disturbed, and, to use your words, 'hopelessly depraved in mind, heart, and life.' Have I omitted anything? Now, let us be silent for a while. You may use the time to contemplate whether I ought to be sent to gaol or entrusted to the tender care of Dr. Lombroso. I will abide by your decision."

Watson stared at his empty lap for a long time. Holmes remained motionless on the sofa, his arm shielding his eyes. An unpracticed eye might have thought him sleeping, but Watson knew the tension in the long body for what it was. After some time he spoke.

"Holmes--"

"Leave me in peace, Watson."

He subsided, but after a few minutes he began to pace the room quietly, coming to rest with his hand on the mantel. When he spoke his voice was soft.

"Holmes, I have no words that can possibly suffice to beg your pardon. I have spoken with my usual clumsiness, and offended the truest and dearest friend that ever man had. Please tell me. . ." he hesitated. "Please tell me you might find a way to forgive my oafishness."

Holmes drew down his arm and peered searchingly at his friend. "Watson. Do you have any idea what we are talking about?"

"Holmes. I lack your mental acuity on all occasions, but nonetheless I am not a stupid man."

Holmes gave his little bark of a laugh at that, and sat up. "Then apply your intelligence to telling me what I am in need of right now," he said, rubbing at his temples.

"A headache powder, I would say." Watson pulled open a drawer and measured out the proper dosage of powder, pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the desk. "Drink this down," he ordered. Their fingers brushed as he passed the glass.

"You do not recoil from me, Watson," he murmured.

"Don't be a fool," he replied brusquely. "You are Holmes, and I am Watson. Nothing you could possibly tell me could sway my regard for you in the slightest."

"You know," Holmes said as he resettled himself on the sofa and rested the glass on his chest, "I really believe that."

Watson regarded his hands. From where he sat on the sofa he could feel the hard length of Holmes's thigh against his backside. He felt much as he did before going into battleó all his senses heightened, all his powers of observation sharpened. The blood was pounding in his chest. He thought of his tentmate McVaine, and as sometimes happened, his life fell into place with a small snick of the bolt hitting home.

He reached for the glass, his fingers uncurling Holmes's gently, touching as much of him as was possible. The soft brush of Holmes's fingers on his sent a quiver straight to his groin, and he swallowed.

"I think perhaps I ought to go lie down now," said Holmes softly.

"You need not go on my account."

"I think it is precisely on your account that I should go."

"Holmes--"

"Do not push me past my breaking point, man. I know you think me a heartless, soulless machine, but by God if you do not move off this sofa at once I shall not be responsible for what I might do."

Never had he heard Holmes's voice like this. Watson could feel a tingle set up in his nether regions and shoot through his belly like cold fire at the thought of what Holmes might do and what he might look like doing it. It made breathing difficult for a moment. He ducked his head.

"I apologise. I thought-- when you said that you-- I-- forgive me." He rose and clutched the mantel, too ashamed to turn and face his friend.

"Watson." His name was said in a timbre that almost made him groan aloud. There was no hiding the thrumming in his groin. Face burning, he strode quickly from the parlour and shut the door of his room behind him.

And then there were other hands on me, long and slender, enfolding my cock, embracing me as I collapsed and thrust helplessly into the warm hand that teased me and maddened me, and I was crying aloud from actual pain at the intensity of it, like nothing I had ever known, as I shot my release in what felt like an endless pulsing stream, my head resting on that dear shoulder, and there was a brush of lips against my ear as I dissolved into pure sensation.

"Ah-- God, Holmes--"

"Sh. It's all right."

Gently he moved us to the bed and laid me down. My friend wrapped his long arms around me and cradled me from behind.

"Holmes-- do you--" I reached a questing hand down to brush the stiffness that pressed into me. Holmes flinched like he had been burned.

"Careful, man," he whispered. "You cannot know what that does to me."

"No, but I can find out." Quickly I turned and applied himself to the unfastening of Holmes's trousers.

"Watson-- you need not-- no, please I cannot bear--"

The sight of Sherlock Holmes biting his lip in an agony of sensation caused my drained member to twitch again. Never had I seen such an unbearably arousing sight as that gorgeous purple cock, freed at last of its imprisonment, straining upward for me. All thought of what this meant, of what sort of man this made me, fled from me, and I knew I needed but one thing: to see this man lose himself in pleasure, and cry my name doing it. He was close, so close, and I pulled him closer.

"Ah God, John. . ."

The sound of my Christian name on those lips pooled what blood remained in my body in my groin again.

"Sherlock," I moaned, nuzzling the skin of his neck. "Let go for me."

Holmes crushed my body to him in an iron grip and began pushing into me in abandon, shaking violently, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

"John-- please--"

I knew what he wanted and curled my hand around the cock that was as long and finely formed as its owner. With fascination I watched Holmes bite his lip so hard a trickle of blood appeared. How long had he been accustomed to stifling his cries when he found his release? I redoubled my efforts on the silken shaft and felt him arch and stiffen against me.

"Sweet Christ-- John, John, yes--"

The next instant my hand was covered in a warm white flood, and Holmes threw his head back, gasping for air. I held him as he trembled and shook with the force of it, and I know I panted with renewed delight, witnessing his abandon. Had ever man been treated to a sweeter sight, or a rarer? Instantly the thought occurred that perhaps other men had indeed known this sight, and the thought was a cold heaviness that I shoved downward. When he had subsided I reached for the fresh towel on the lower shelf of the washstand by the bed and gently cleaned us both. God bless Mrs. Hudson, I thought. Holmes watched under heavy-lidded eyes.

"As God is my witness, Watson, I came into this room with the sole purpose of apologising."

I smiled at that. "For what, my dear Holmes, could you possibly need to apologise?"

"All these years we have known each other, and that was the way I revealed myself to you-- by a fit of peevishness at your innocent journal. It was inexcusable. Watson, can you forgive me?"

I laughed in earnest then. Here we had just commited an act that made us no better than criminals, that ninety-nine percent of the medical authorities in the civilised world would concur proved us mentally and morally defective, and Holmes ws concerned at a breach of common courtesy. It was so wonderfully rich, so delightfully Holmes, that I laughed the harder the more I tried to stop. Holmes propped himself on an elbow to watch me, frowning.

"I say, Watson. This is certainly not the effect I was hoping for."

"I'm sorry, my good fellow," I said wiping my eyes. "But the utter ridiculousness of it struck me. Perhaps my newfound criminal life has made me a trifle hysterical."

Holmes's eyes were grave. "Is that what you think," he said softly.

"Oh for heaven's sake, no. I didn't think it criminal activity yesterday and I don't think it so today. I am a practical man, Holmes, a medical man, not a philosophical man, and crime that harms no one seems no crime to me."

His eyes remained grave. "Watson. I am wondering if you would mind. . ."

The day's wonders looked not to cease. I had never known Sherlock Holmes to hesitate to finish a sentence in all our acquaintance. But the moment passed, and his courage was back.

"I am wondering if you would mind very much if I kissed you."

I was taken aback. Kissing had not occurred to me, and I suppose I stiffened a bit. He caught the movement, of course, and turned, his eyes shadowed. I stopped him and pulled him back, seizing his face in my hands. He brought one hand up to brush my cheek. It was a more loverlike gesture than I recalled receiving from anyone, and my eyes fluttered shut at it.

"Shall you close your eyes and imagine I am a woman, John?"

"No, by God." I groaned and pulled him closer. Our lips brushed and I felt an electric jolt at it. His tongue flicked my lips, and I gasped in surprise. He gently opened my mouth and slid his skilful tongue over mine. This masterful kiss was like nothing I had ever known before. Here was no soft melting, no timidity. He was roughness and firmness and it was glorious. I felt the scrape of his stubble on my cheek and was shocked at the eroticism of it. I pushed my tongue back at him and kissed him as he had been kissing me. We took our time, exploring, mapping, learning likes and dislikes. Finally he broke off, smiling.

"That was. . . remarkable," I said at last, feeling him watching me.

He cocked a brow. "I would have thought, Watson, that your experience in such matters far outstripped mine."

"Well. . ." I shifted, uncertain of his meaning. Did he imagine I had any idea what I was about in this situation? Or did he refer to my previous romantic involvements, with women? His gaze was unreadable as ever, but his lips were wet with my kisses. I wanted to lick a trail up his jaw, down his neck, into all the lovely hollows of his body.

"The truth is, Holmes, I've no experience at all of. . . this sort of thing. I lack your. . . that is to say, I have not the luxury of long years of being accustomed to feeling. . . that is. . ." I was fast sinking into a mire of my own making.

"Back to Holmes, am I," he said softly. "Do you imagine, John, that I have been sneaking out of this flat we share to keep sordid assignations with rent boys?" I marveled, not for the first time, at that voice that could harden into remoteness in the space of a breath.

"I--well, I don't know. No, of course not. Before this evening I should never have thought--but then, before this evening I should never have thought any number of things about you. You can hardly blame me, Holmes, if I seem a trifle confused aboutówell, about all sorts of things." I loathed the plaintive sound of my own voice, the stiff priggishness of it that I couldn't seem to get rid of.

"Yes. Naturally. In one evening you have gone from believing me utterly devoid of human feeling, to discovering me the slave to the basest of impulses."

"Good God, Holmes, I never -- damn it, man!" I sat up and smacked the pillow in my frustration. "For the love of God, 'base' is a word I could never apply to you or your feelings. You are the noblest creature I have ever known, the truest, the dearest, the--" I covered my eyes, appalled at my own clumsiness. "Holmes -- Sherlock, if you will allow it--I--I only meant--oh, in the name of all that's holy, damn my stupid awkwardness. I am so very at sea here that I--"

"Hush, John. You will aggravate my headache." He pulled me back down with a firm gesture, and I settled stiffly on the pillow beside him. "I think we are both rather at sea here," he said, and his voice had gone soft again. He reached a hand up to stroke my cheek as before, and again, I shivered at it.

"Do you like that, then," he murmured absently.

I seized my opportunity and bent over him, taking the lead as he had done before, and pressed my lips to his, pushing until he opened to me. This kiss was even sweeter than the one before, and I shifted until our bodies were pressed together as firmly as our lips. I let myself think of nothing but the sensation of Holmes' body against mine, our softened cocks nestled together. His hand reached around to pull me closer, and settled on my backside. Long fingers dug into me, and I gasped at the unexpected eroticism of it. It was as though my body had been rearranged, turned completely inside out, so that it would not have surprised me if Holmes had tapped my fingernails and I had melted in pleasure. And really, I believed it possible. I had never known touch like this, that could so utterly unstring me. I wanted more, and yet I knew not the name for what I wanted, or how to achieve it; I simply knew that I needed to be closer, yet closer.

"Patience, Watson," he breathed in my ear, as I clutched and groaned and writhed. "We still have our clothes on, and you-- Good God, Watson, look at the time!" In an instant the lazy lover was gone, replaced by the man of action, who sprang from my bed, disheveled, his eyes on the clock. "Lady Beresford is due to call at any minute. This simply will not do at all." In five seconds he had righted himself and was Holmes again.

"Get up, Watson. Honestly, if you wish to laze about all afternoon, I don't know what will become of you. Such sloth is unbecoming to a medical man." He quirked his brow at me and let his lip twitch in the ghost of a smile. He was out the door before I could reply, and the next instant I heard the brisk step of Lady Bereford through the parlour door, and her cultured tones mingling with Holmes'own. I knew I ought to pull myself together and join him, but I could not bear to yet. I ran a hand over the rumpled bedcovers. My God, what had I done? I knew in my heart I should be rushing out the door to throw myself prostrate at the feet of the nearest clergyman, begging the forgiveness of God and everyone. And yet, I could not summon the least regret or repentance, or any emotion other than an overpowering desire to lie with Holmes in this way again, but without our clothes this time. I felt like a man who has suddenly discovered he can fly when he steps off the kerb. I will wager, dear reader, that should such an astonishing thing happen to you, your first question would be not, how can such a thing be? but rather, for how long has it been thus with me, and I have not known it?

I kicked back the rumpled linens and leaped up, my heart light. With a hasty hand, I put myself to rights and, still smoothing my hair, stepped into the parlour, where Holmes sat folded in his customary chair, hands steepled in thought as he listened to his newest supplicant.

He glanced up as I entered--the barest of glances, a slide of his eyes in my direction, and then it was gone. But it was enough to warm me as I settled into my chair opposite his, exactly as we had ever done. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. My chair beneath me was both familiar and strange, as familiar and strange as Holmes himself across from me.

"Lady Beresford, perhaps you would be so good as to repeat what you have just been telling me," Holmes was saying. "I believe Dr. Watson may have some unique insight to offer on the situation. He is, after all--" and Holmes once again cast his gaze in my direction, letting it linger this time--"a medical man."

An author's note: The articles and psychologists Watson quotes in the beginnning of this story are no invention of mine. They are actual articles, written by actual medical men of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, published in respected and widely circulated medical journals. This story was born in my mind when I ran across these articles in the course of research on another topic, and began to wonder what a contemporary might have thought or felt, encountering them. That that individual might be Sherlock Holmes is a flight of fancy on my part, but that Holmes might have been homosexual is not so great a leap as all that.

From a stylistic point of view, I acknowledge this story's chief difficulty to be a shift in point of view abut halfway through that will irritate some readers, but which I cannot, on reflection, bring myself to abandon. Nor can I, it would appear, give over talking like Watson.

To send feedback to the author: Email: Fabula Rasa

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