It often happens that I must note cases in confidence for the sake of my own records and memory. On this occasion, while the case itself is well-documented, certain aspects of it must and will remain confidential.
I have written previously in this private journal of two cases involving closets.
In the course of the first case, Holmes and I were witness to a saturnalian feast that would have pleased all but the most hedonistic of Roman emperors. Years later, pressed against him in another closet, the heat between us was undeniable. It was the night Holmes and I first became lovers in all senses of the word. It was also the night my fondness for closets was solidly established.
I should have known from the start that Holmes was aware of that partiality. I never spoke of it, but of course Holmes has never needed words to understand me. Thus, the incident which I am about to recount should not have come as a surprise. Yet it did, and very pleasantly.
On the occasion in question, a late autumn evening, we had staked out the likeliest location to entrap a criminal much desired by Lestrade and Scotland Yard. The location was such that the most logical hiding place in which to wait to ensnare him was a cramped and dusty empty linen cupboard. I was at once pleased and discomfited by the situation. As the hours wore on, however, my predominate feeling was aggravation. My nose and eyes itched from the dust and I'd grown over warm in the enclosed space. More pressing, however, than either of those discomforts was Holmes' lean form against my more solid one. His closeness in a location that brought to mind previous similar situations did little for my ability to concentrate on the case. Although I admit the distraction of Holmes was a pleasant one. Still, I could not entirely hold back my irritation with a situation that I could not control any more than I could control my body's reaction to his.
I was anxious with waiting and with restraining my growing passion. This was neither the place nor the time, and Holmes would not appreciate an amorous overture in such circumstances. I fidgeted despite my best efforts to remain still, and I have no doubt that my restlessness, slight as it was, irritated Holmes, although he never spoke a word. Until one whisper of a breath escaped his lips.
One long-fingered hand clapped firmly over my mouth a mere second before another grasped me through my trousers. Our eyes met and for once I could read him as well as ever he read me. Be silent, those eyes said, and be still. I nodded once and the hand was removed from my mouth.
I admit to facing some not inconsiderable challenge in holding to my promise, for no sooner had he released my mouth than both of his hands were upon my trouser buttons, swiftly undoing them. It was a work of moments for him to slip past the string of my drawers and almost before my brain could comprehend it, he knelt before me in that narrow space and took me in.
It was not the first time I had felt the sensation of his mouth upon me. I knew its warmth and wetness. I knew the clever flicks of his tongue and the press of his lips. It was, however, the first time he'd taken me so abruptly and in such surroundings. Visions of that long past orgy swam in my mind's eye as did flashes of memory at our mad dash to return home afterward. More recent recollections followed of the confinement of a closet where Holmes' longing was at last revealed to me, and I made known my own with a burning kiss.
I felt the tension in me rise as I neared my climax. Then, at once, it struck me. I gasped and bit my lip sharply to hold back the cry of pleasure that threatened to escape. I pressed my hands hard against the opposite wall, above Holmes' bent head, to keep myself steady as my body threatened to shake apart.
Slowly, my breath calmed and my pulse returned to normal. By the time it did, Holmes had done up all my fastenings and restored my clothing to the perfect vision of propriety.
When Holmes once more stood tall, I looked into his face and saw the small smile that turned the corners of his mouth. When he spoke it was a whisper barely as loud as a moth might flutter its wings. "I trust you'll be better able to focus now that you're more relaxed."
Not trusting myself to speak yet, I could only nod in affirmation.
"Good." Holmes looked away, peering out once more through the slatted door of the cupboard.
At last, I managed a word. "What about you?"
His head didn't move, but I saw the flicker of his eyes as he glanced my way. "You'll have your answer to that upon our return to Baker Street."
And I am happy to say that I did.