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of flesh he arched his back and clutched my head to his breast in a most gratifying fashion.
    Eventually he pushed me off him with an exclamation of impatience, produced a pot of Vaseline from his bedside table and lay back down on his front, his head pillowed on his folded arms. The erotic picture he made caused me to swallow hard, and I reached out and ran a hand down his perfect spine, brushing my fingers lightly over the curve of his backside. Gratified by another involuntary shiver, I let my thumbs dip into the crease between his buttocks and could not hide a smile as he thrust the small pot at me insistently. Taking it, I let him listen to me opening it but then a thought struck me and I set it back down. When I pressed a kiss to the small of his back, he went very still. Knowing my friend's scrupulous habits as I did, I nonetheless enquired, "Am I correct in thinking that you bathed before breakfast this morning?"
    I sounded as neutral as though I were querying whether he would prefer whiskey or brandy after supper, and his shoulders twitched in response.
    "Of course," he murmured, sounding rather strangled. Without further hesitation, I bent my head to place another kiss at the base of his spine, and then allowed my tongue to trace the same path that my thumbs had just taken. I paused, waiting briefly to gauge his reaction, and when he mutely widened his legs I took it as my unspoken permission to continue. The particular type of caresses I bestowed were not something I had done very often before – perhaps only two or three times in my whole life – but I was gratified to see, when I glanced up the rigid lines of Holmes's back, that his fingers were fisted in the sheets and his face buried in the pillow. When I added wet fingers as well, the reaction was immediate. His hand found my forehead and pushed me away from him almost violently as he scrambled to his hands and knees.
    "If you are waiting for me to beg," he said roughly, "I am afraid you will be disappointed."
    I stroked the outside of his thigh soothingly.
    "Turn over," I requested. He shifted his weight a little.
    " Now ," he insisted.
    "Sherlock," I repeated quietly. I had never called him by his Christian name before, and he almost startled. "I hope to do this a great many times with you, in a number of positions but this first time, let me see you."
    Without further comment he turned over onto his back, I pulled his legs high around my waist and pressed into him gently. His eyes flew shut and his arousal subsided slightly with the momentary discomfort of penetration, but I held steady and spoke to him. I do not now recall what I said to him and am not entirely sure I wish to, for it was doubtless the sort of romantic nonsense that would make me blush scarlet. But in this instance it was exactly what was needed, for it was barely a minute before he was arching up towards me and impatiently urging me on.
    That was another discovery I made that morning, with the pale winter sun sending tentative beams into the room – that Sherlock Holmes, even while taking a role that is usually considered the more submissive one, was quite capable of issuing terse instructions at me entirely throughout the experience. I should say almost entirely for, as I tried to make the act last as long as I could in deference to his stated wish, towards the end his commands deserted him and he was incapable of anything more than inarticulate moans. Working a hand between our bodies, I wrapped my fingers around his cock and stroked him tightly for a bare minute before having the supreme satisfaction of watching him shatter apart beneath me.
    For all his verbosity and imperious orders during the act, he was completely silent at its completion, a look of ecstasy on his beloved face and his thighs tightening around my ribs. When his hand reached down and found my wrist, stilling my fingers on his now over-sensitised flesh, I reared back and gripped both his hips hard, allowing myself to