+++If you are smart enough to have enjoyed these detective stories and you are over 18 then come into our Flat on 221B Baker Street, London and listen to my story. Under 18, no way!
Now that Sherlock is dead and I shall follow shortly, I deem it the last opportunity to adjust my accounts of the Adventures.
First off, the "Study in Scarlet" that tells of my first meeting with Holmes is erroneous. I had known Sherlock somewhat before my Indian campaigns. So you see, it wasn't an advert in the "London Times" that brought us together for the first time, but rather the instrument of our reunion.
That said, the most incorrect and misleading descriptions of Holmes and myself were entirely my doing. I thought my readers would not believe such young fellows could have negotiated these stories. I added many years to our true age and manipulated our appearances for the sake of drama. Actually when I appeared at the doorway of Holmes flat, nearly mustered out of the army, I was a young doctor of twenty five years, ready to reestablish my private medical practice. Holmes was about the same age.
In the intervening years, motion pictures, television and other literary works have conspired to flesh out a portrait of these fictional images. Sherlock was depicted as very tall, very thin with a hawk like nose. I was pictured as rotund with a moustache. Totally incorrect! We are both of medium build and clean shaven. Sherlock has very light brown hair and I dark brown hair, other than that, we could be brothers as our facial features and not dissimilar.
As to personality, ah, there I was quite truthful in my portrayal of Sherlock. He was a genius, though he had left Oxford in his first year of study to pursue his interests in solving mysteries he found in the newspaper. He could well afford it as a handsome yearly income had been set up for him by his father. Though young, he had already can a growing reputation with Scotland Yard. It is true that he published monographs concerning tobacco ash and several other remarkable papers. Those, too, added to his statue.
As for your writer, I do not pretend to be brilliant or gifted in the qualities of a detective. I am a simple physician, but Sherlock, himself, will attest to the many times my knowledge, my presence and my affection for him won the day.
Though I have not written of our adventures in decades, I must set myself the task of describing a curious occurrence around the time of the Baskerville tale.
Sherl (my usual name for my partner and occasional lover) was playing his violin...badly, as usual. This scratchy endeavor seemed to calm his impatience today, but I feared he might relapse into the use of the fruit of the poppy. In fact, at this very moment he was eying that cabinet on the other side of the room. In that cabinet was a curiously wrought box that contained his drug equipment.
To divert his attention, I crossed the room myself and put my hand on his shoulder. "Dear friend, do not allow your thoughts and desire to lead to such an extreme. When you are under the spell of that master, you lose all of your facilities of brilliant, and your sexual abilities that have brought us both such pleasure, are also compromised.
"Johnny (that was his name for me, in intimate moments). I would dally with you but you would be preforming a act that would or could compromise your long relationship with your Baskerville. ( Young Baskerville and I became lovers during that case that we had brilliantly solved.)
"You are probably right dear Sherl," and I withdrew.
"Wait. I know for a fact that he has been a hound this year. Ha ha, the hound of the Baskervilles. Quite funny, don't you think, but sadly true. He has become well known to the bum boys round the Piccadilly circle, so you must divest your feelings of loyalty to such a cur." Finishing this statement, he fell to his knees and commenced to pull open the my flies, finding a pole of flesh, hot and pulsing with desire.
His full lips slid over my member and produced those familiar feelings that he could produce so rapidly. My animalistic grunts of pleasure filled the room as his large tongue licked my cock like a bovine at the salt cake.
In moments he hummed his pleasure at my emissions of sweet preliminary fluid. It spurred him on to greater effort and soon I grasped his head for support as I began undulating my hips in helpless throes of orgasm.
He drank it all. Then he rose to his feet. "Quick Johnny, suckle me, I will die unless I can empty these heavy bullocks."
I am not a fan of sexual activity immediately after having my own pleasure, but old friendships trumped my reluctance. I reached down to undo his trousers when there was a soft knock on the door.
We smoothed ourselves and my friend went to the door. He opened it to find Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, standing there in a state of anxiety. "Mr. Holmes. There is a rough gentleman who demands to see you. He is ascending the stairs at this very moment and I hope he has no desire to harm you. Oh my..."
At that moment she was firmly pushed aside and a tall country-looking fellow burst into the room. Sherl held up his hand to signal that the ruffian should stand there.
Sherl looked the intruder up and down and began to speak, "You are from the part of England just below the Scottish border. You have spent years training horses and you sustained a serious fall ten years ago that causes a limp, even to this day."
I was aghast. "I have never seen you so astute. I cannot imagine how you were able to deduct this details of the man, at so short of time."
The old horse trainer was laughing uproariously and slapping his knee in helpless merriment. "O' course 'e knows such. After all, young Holmes, Sherly we called 'im then o'course he loved to wear girl's dresses. Didn't ye?"
Sherl blushed. I gave him a hard stare for trying to fool me.
The old chap prattled on, "Oh how ye and yur older brother Mycroft would giggle and tickle in yur nakedness. The two of ye were a caution.
Sherl just kept silent, then spoke in a formal voice. "What brings you to London, William?"
"Yes Sherly. You must decide if we should keep the sheep herding. The railroad wants to go through that pasture and Mycroft has received the offer. He charged me to get your signature on this doc-a-ment."
Sherl hastily grabbed the paper. Took it to his desk and signed it quickly and handed it back to this William. Holding a firm hand on the man's back, he almost pushed his out the door.
When the echo of the descending footsteps died away, Sherl looked at me. "That little deduction of mine will never appear in any of your accounts, I trust."
"You have my word. Now to you wish my ministrations on your cock?"
"I do, but my mind keeps returning to an activity that may relieve my feverishness."
I thought his mind was fixed on the cocaine in the cabinet, but his chose an alternate pacifier. He picked up his violin, didn't tune it and proceeded to play a mournful dirge impossible to recognize.
"Sherl, I'm popping to the corner to get the latest Times. Do enjoy your playing."
(End Note)
I wish to correct the impression of some Londoners over the article that appeared in the "Tattler" concerning The Baker Street Irregulars, that band of prepubescent lads who often ran errands for the great detective. Yes, Sherl did have a favorite among them, a pink cheeked lad, Toby. There was never any physical contact between them, though I admit that both may have dreamed of it.
End
The author (not Dr.Watson) hopes you may get some amusement from this parody. And hopes that you will forgive him for the small amount of sex. JR