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Sometimes Watson acknowledged that his predilection was more of an addiction. It seemed inconstant with his nature, and it was because of this irregularity that he denied it six days out of seven. On the seventh day, however—ah, how the mighty and the prideful fall!

One day in the week, Watson gambled. It was all he would permit himself, and it always seemed much sweeter for the denial. A doctor should be upstanding, a man of unimpeachable moral fibre. This at least was Watson's belief, flawed though he knew such logic to be. He did not need Holmes to inform him of this fact; Watson had witnessed the sanctity of the Hippocratic Oath broken too many times to fool himself that it was any other way.

But still he clung to his belief, even if by doing so he damned himself. After all, no man was perfect.

On the seventh day, which was upon this occasion a Thursday, Watson lost almost the entire contents of his pocketbook on an ill-chosen bet. Disgruntled, he removed himself to Baker Street, and there greeted Mrs Hudson absent-mindedly as he climbed the stairs to his shared lodgings. He had just crested the top of the stairs when a muffled explosion rent the air and shook the door on its hinges.

Downstairs he heard Mrs Hudson shriek in what he took to be dismay. Watson hesitated only a moment before he pushed open the door to Holmes' rooms and ventured into a cloud of acrid, choking smoke. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in front of his face before wrapping it over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered and he blinked hard to clear his vision. From somewhere beyond the heavy pall of smoke came the thin trickle of plaster.

"Damn it, Holmes!" Watson stumbled over a footstool and trod on a half rolled Turkish carpet. "Damnation, sir. Are you trying to set the place alight?"

A shadowy figure in shirtsleeves flung open one of the windows, and soon cold but fresh air billowed in, thinning the smoke. Holmes stood by the window and grinned, his teeth white against his soot-smudged skin, his braces hanging loose and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. "Merely an experiment."

Watson strode further into the room and stared at the remnants of the experiment smouldering away on the occasional table. He poked at the charred residue with the tip of his cane. "I suppose it didn't work."

"Quite the opposite. I was entirely successful." Holmes scrubbed his hands through his hair, pulled at a few singed ends, then dropped down onto the chaise longue. He unrolled his sleeves and toyed with the cuffs for a moment, his gaze fixed on Watson's face, and then his expression cleared and he said, "Ah, I see."

"What?" Watson glared at him. "What do you see?"

"You were unlucky today." Holmes stretched out and put his hands behind his head as he continued to observe Watson through slumberous eyes. "Very unlucky, I'd wager."

Watson scowled. "Please don't use the word 'wager'."

"A bad loss?"

"It was..." Watson stopped himself. If he spoke honestly, Holmes would chastise him for his wastrel habits, which was rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black—with the exception that Holmes seemed untroubled by money worries. On the reasoning that Holmes would know if he told a blatant lie, Watson settled for twisting the truth. "It was a trifle only. Twenty shillings."

"A trifle." Holmes patted down his trouser pockets, then slid off the chaise longue and crossed to the occasional table. He pulled his jacket from a nearby chair—the garment now scorched almost beyond recognition—and extracted his pipe and tobacco. For a moment he placed the stem of the pipe between his teeth, compressed his lips around it, and stared at Watson with a peculiarly penetrating expression.

Unperturbed, Watson picked stray items of gentlemen's apparel—his third-best waistcoat, to which Holmes had taken a fancy; a pair of Holmes' pin-stripe trousers; a shirt in dire need of starching—from an armchair and seated himself, propping his cane beside him. Then he returned Holmes' stare. "What?"

Holmes took the unlit pipe from his mouth. "I rejoice to find your finances so sound that twenty shillings is a mere trifle."

Watson swallowed, wilting a little beneath the unwavering gaze. Holmes knew. Somehow he knew, damn it! Perhaps falsehood had an odour about it. Watson wanted to give his clothes a surreptitious sniff, but didn't dare move while Holmes still observed him with such intensity.

It was easier to admit defeat than to continue the charade. Watson sighed and held up his hands in surrender. "It was almost three pounds. And you know very well that my finances are unsound, and I know very well that I should not gamble with three pounds..."

The pipe clattered onto the occasional table. Holmes crossed the room in two swift strides and dropped to his knees beside the armchair. He covered Watson's hand with his own and gave him a burning look. "Allow me to console you, Watson."

"Console...?" Blustering, Watson sat up straight and tried to prevent his thoughts from turning in one highly specific direction. Consolation when offered by Holmes invariably meant sweat, a modicum of pain, a raft of pleasure, and stained bed linens. Holmes had a plethora of euphemisms for the sexual act, and Watson hadn't yet grasped the full measure of them. Frequently he misunderstood, taking a proper suggestion for an improper suggestion and vice versa, and though he would never admit it, it was a part of their relationship Watson most enjoyed.

Holmes rubbed his cheek against Watson's sleeve. "My dear doctor, you are in dreadful need of consolation."

Deciding that yes, he was in need, Watson nodded and placed his free hand on Holmes' head, stroking the unruly waves of dark hair. Holmes heaved a sigh as deep and contented as a cat feeding from a large dish of cream, then he shook off Watson's hand and stood with a purposeful air.

Watson got out of the armchair in full expectation of proceeding directly to bed. As Holmes whirled across the room, pulling up his braces and settling them on his shoulders—an odd action for a man about to get undressed—Watson fumbled for some affectionate words. He always felt silly speaking endearments out loud to his friend, but Holmes always wriggled and purred at the slightest hint of sentimental ego-stroking.

"My dear Holmes," Watson began, then stopped, perplexed, when Holmes excavated his violin from beneath a tumble of monographs and French newsprint.

"Yes?" Holmes tucked the violin beneath his chin and spun round, his eyebrows raised in quizzical fashion.

"The, er, consolation?" Watson made a discreet indication towards the bedroom and cleared his throat. "You were going to console me."

"Ah, quite so. Indeed I was." Holmes swung back to the tottering pile of papers. "Where is my bow?"

"In my receiving room. Holmes..."

"Consolation. I remember." Holmes turned again, holding the violin by its slender neck. "Not, I fear, the consolation you were hoping for, Watson, but the consolation of wisdom on the nature of your compulsion."

"Oh." Watson sat back down. "Wisdom." He assumed an interested expression and waited, then frowned. "My compulsion?"

"Gambling," Holmes said, slowly and patiently. "You gamble because you are a doctor."

Watson's frown deepened. "How so? Explain yourself."

"Men gamble when they are required by external pressure to act out the role of God—or gods, since the Oath that binds you derives from a pagan culture of exquisite sensitivity and understanding." Holmes tilted up his violin again and plucked it, fingertips sudden over strings, the sound like raindrops. "Men are fallible; gods are not—and while mankind may rail against injustices perpetrated or permitted by the Almighty, they cannot ever truly blame God. A man, though—they can blame a man."

Watson shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. "Your point, Holmes?"

The violin wailed. The noise ended with a brutal abruptness, and Holmes gave him an almost-smile. "Doctors gamble with lives. When you've become inured to life and death, what else is there? Ordinary reality must seem very tedious."

"I assure you, it isn't." Watson crossed his legs at the ankle and reached for the nearest newspaper. It was ten months out of date, but it would serve as a shield against any more of this nonsense. He applied himself to the headlines with all the eagerness of a hound after a fox.

"Tedious," Holmes said again, adding another pizzicato as emphasis before he cast the violin aside.

"I happen to think my ordinary, tedious life is quite pleasant." Watson rustled the newspaper, holding the broadsheet higher to block the sight of his friend prowling around the room. "Doctors long for normality after a day spent on life or death cases."

"Ah, normality." Holmes draped himself over the back of the armchair, bringing with him the scent of damp dog and gunpowder. "That must be why you seek out my company so frequently, Watson."

With a sigh, Watson put down the newspaper and tipped back his head to meet Holmes' gaze. "Was there something you wished to say to me? Something relevant to our conversation? Your penchant for dancing around an issue is quite tiresome."

Holmes straightened. "Lady Mowbray declares I am a splendid dancer."

"Who the devil is Lady Mowbray?"

"A Lady, not a devil, though you may be right to confuse the two."

The cloud of a headache passed in front of Watson's eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Holmes..."

"There was nothing in particular, my dear Watson." Holmes gave him a wide-eyed look, as innocent and charming as a new-born lamb. "Only, if you insist on handing over your money to every charitable cause you encounter..."

"Charitable?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Really, Watson. There is no other way to describe the process. Your gaming skills are so poor you might as well give it away."

"I am not that unfortunate."

"Indeed." Holmes snatched the newspaper and tossed it to the floor, then began pacing. "This morning you stumbled upon a cockfight. Finding yourself disquieted by the fighting birds and, having bet on neither fowl, you went outside in search of something else upon which to waste your money, and wagered on a game of dice between a Russian and a Frenchman. You backed the Russian, who looked dour and thoughtful. The Frenchman talked incessantly in a Breton accent and seemed more interested in the cockfight taking place inside the warehouse."

Watson stared at him, dismay cutting through the realisation. "You were the Frenchman."

"Au contraire, I was the Russian. The Frenchman's dice was loaded." Holmes came closer to the armchair and leaned forward, his unruly hair falling into greater disarray. "Never trust a Breton."

"I'll bear that in mind." Watson waved away Holmes' wagging finger. "To the point, if you please?"

Holmes stood and meandered across the worn rugs towards the empty fireplace. "The point is, if you're going to gamble, you should at least give yourself the chance of winning rather than continually laying bets that quite clearly will come to nothing."

Irritation—or perhaps it was frustration—bubbled out of Watson. "Short of clairvoyance, how on earth do you propose I do that? If I could be guaranteed a winner, of course I would gamble on it!"

"Would you?" The look Holmes gave him made Watson quiver.

Watson swallowed. "Yes." He forced air into his lungs. "Your reading of my pathology, though entertaining, was wholly inaccurate. I gamble because—" he paused, his breath catching for a moment, "because I want to win."

Holmes came back to him and leaned down again, gripping the armrests of Watson's chair and pinning him in place with a brilliant gaze. "And yet you always bet on losers. Are you afraid of winning, Dr Watson?"

Words of denial sprang to his lips, but Watson couldn't seem to order his thoughts into any degree of coherency. He struggled against his failure for a moment, then lay back in the armchair and stared helplessly at his friend.

Holmes tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and after a pause, pulled away. He strode across the detritus of the room, stepping over the recumbent form of Gladstone to give his attention to another of his infernal experiments. He began tinkering with a device constructed of copper pipes and test tubes, and kept his back to Watson when he said, "If you would care to join me this evening, I will introduce you to what I believe is known in gambling parlance as 'a sure thing'."

His interest piqued, Watson stirred. Levering himself from the armchair, he ventured towards Holmes, already calculating how much he could afford to spend on a fresh bet. "Really, Holmes? Do you have some insider knowledge?"

"Yes."

"And may I ask what I will be betting on?"

Holmes turned and flashed him a devilish smile. "Me."

Watson leaned on his cane, peering through the ill-lit gloom of the cellar at the fight unravelling a few feet in front of him. The stink of wet sawdust and gin curdled with the stench of frying fat and sharp, pungent spices he couldn't name. Though his nose was by no means as keen as Holmes', Watson could still detect the sickly sweet scent of opium clinging to the clothes of many of his excitable neighbours.

This shabby little dive was located somewhere off Gill Street, a place inhabited by itinerant sailors and dock workers from Canton. On their journey to Limehouse, Holmes had muttered something about the growth of the area and its internal divisions, the Cantonese matched against the Shanghanese, but Watson had paid little attention, too concerned by the lurid stories in the popular press about white slavers and opium dens. When he mentioned these concerns out loud, Holmes laughed at him.

"Opium-eaters are not the violent type, my dear Watson." Holmes' eyes were bright as he said it, and Watson was not reassured. His misgivings had only increased when they entered the ramshackle wooden building and descended a staircase into a brick-built cellar. A single glance told him there was only one exit behind them, and the crowd baying and shoving in a rough circle in front of them seemed foreign and hostile.

"Give me your money. I will place the bet."

Watson had obeyed, and Holmes immediately vanished into the press of scruffy-looking individuals, abandoning Watson to his own devices. As the only discernable gentleman in the place, Watson gritted his teeth and faced down the stir their arrival had caused. Recalling their purpose there, he took a slow stroll between the upended barrels that served as tables. The patrons of Canton Kitty's were a ragtag mix of Chinese and European, and until the evening's entertainment began, Watson amused himself by identifying the languages spoken around him. Chinese, obviously, though he couldn't tell the dialects apart. To his right, some uncouth Cockney; and over there, perhaps Polish or another Slavic tongue.

The first fight had been underway some six minutes and had attracted the full attention of the rowdy drinkers. The men in front of Watson stepped back as one of the combatants crashed to the floor and rolled towards them, breaking the white chalked circle. Watson rocked on his heels and jabbed down with his cane to right himself. A space opened up and he moved into it, elbowing past the Slavs and insinuating himself beside the Cockney.

Inside the makeshift fighting ring, a Chinaman with a long grey queue securely fastened around his head was trouncing his opponent, a Russian sailor almost twice his size. Watson watched as the Russian windmilled towards the Chinaman, beefy fists flying. The Chinaman backed up one pace, gaze darting, then blocked high, low, high, before dropping into a sweeping kick that knocked the Russian off balance. A second later, he landed a punch to the Russian's solar plexus.

Watson was glad he hadn't placed a bet for this match, for he'd have backed the loser again. He winced as the Russian toppled full length, gave an almighty groan, and lay still. A shout of dismay went up from one side of the circle and a scuffle broke out. Someone flung a bottle at the Chinaman, who ducked and spun in a graceful arc then launched himself over the fallen body of his opponent and into the crowd with an ear-splitting shriek.

Pandemonium ensued for the next five minutes. Removing himself from the fray, Watson tapped his cane against the floor and blew out his breath, waiting for order to reassert itself.

"Having a good time, Watson?" Holmes enquired from beside him.

Startled, Watson turned with an aggrieved response on his lips. The words died as he took in the manner of Holmes' dress, or rather, his undress. Hair tousled, eyes wide and wild, Holmes trembled with repressed energy like a hound straining at the leash before a hunt. He looked uncompromisingly barbaric, stripped to the waist except for the blue and grey striped cravat knotted casually around his neck, which only served to emphasise his descent from gentleman to—to...

Watson wasn't sure he could find an appropriate description, though 'savage' came to mind. He blinked, his mouth going dry at the unselfconscious display. Holmes' body held no secrets from him, but it was one thing to enjoy the path of discovery in the privacy of one's own bedchamber, and quite another to see it flaunted in public.

Apparently unperturbed by the scrutiny, Holmes gave an approving glance towards the ruckus on the other side of the room. "I do so enjoy coming here. The clientele is so unpredictable. You don't get this kind of behaviour at my brother's club, you know. It's so invigorating."

Before Watson could reply, a gong sounded. The crowd fell silent, postponed their disagreements, and shuffled back to form the circle. The winner of the last bout strode into the ring and made some sort of announcement in three languages, none of which Watson understood. While he was trying to guess what was said from the crowd's reaction, Holmes tugged off his cravat and draped it over Watson's arm.

"Here. A favour."

Watson spluttered. "It should be me giving you the favour, surely?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about a kiss for luck?" Holmes cocked an eyebrow and flashed him a smile, then continued before Watson could organise his thoughts, let alone make a sensible response: "No? Not even on the cheek? Never mind..."

With that, Holmes pushed his way through the crowd and entered the circle. He inclined his head towards the Chinaman, who made a solemn bow in response and stepped aside. A younger man came forward, all sinew and hard muscle, his eyes glittering with determination beneath lowered brows.

Watson edged sideways for a better view, concern beginning to rouse inside him as he compared Holmes' comfortable slouch to the Chinaman's coiled stance. He muttered at the foolishness of the enterprise, and was overheard by the Cockney, who gave him a gap-toothed grin.

"Your mate is in for it." The Cockney nodded at the young Chinaman. "Little Ah Ming is unbeatable. His dad's a top scrapper. Served in the Emperor of China's eunuch bodyguard, I heard."

Watson opened his mouth to enquire how exactly a eunuch had managed to father a son, but then he thought better of it. He lifted his gaze heavenwards and offered a brief prayer on behalf of his money, then took a firm grasp on his cane and leaned forward as the fight began.

Holmes danced, forcing his weight through the balls of his feet into his toes. He almost fluttered around Ah Ming, who remained grounded and moved with practised steps as the two men took the measure of one another. Around them, the crowd yelled encouragement and called down curses in a polyglot of tongues, jostling forward but not actually crossing the chalked line on the floor.

Ah Ming struck first. Watson could scarce follow the young man's attack, so fast was he; but Holmes swayed back and avoided the open-handed punch aimed at his throat. Just as quick, Holmes smacked Ah Ming's forearm in a swift clapping motion designed to irritate rather than do damage. Ah Ming drew back, his left arm flicking out as distraction, half turning to throw his weight through another right-handed strike.

Holmes dropped and charged him like a bull, head-butting Ah Ming. Caught unawares, the Chinaman stumbled backwards then twisted into a spin. He launched himself, one leg folding tight against his body, the other extended. Holmes couldn't block in time and took the full force of the kick in his chest. He staggered and dropped to the floor, where he sat for a moment staring at Ah Ming, a half smile curling his lips.

The crowd whooped, scenting an easy victory for Ah Ming.

Watson resisted the urge to shout at Holmes. This had been a madcap idea. He should never have agreed to come here. There was no pleasure in witnessing defeat, and it was all the more galling for the fact that he'd laid money on Holmes winning.

The breath hissed between Watson's teeth as he watched Holmes get to his feet and shake himself. A moment later he danced in at Ah Ming again in a flurry of provocation, combining moves that did nothing more than sting with moves that did greater damage.

Watson frowned. Most gentlemen knew how to box, had studied the art at some point and could discuss the sport. Watson fancied he knew more than most, for his training as a doctor made him aware of the effects of a fistfight. This, however, was not a fistfight or boxing match like any he'd seen before. He recognised certain classic elements within Holmes' style, but the overall effect was unorthodox and peculiar.

He groaned and shook his head when Ah Ming landed a succession of punches and followed through with a somersault kick that made the crowd roar and which sent Holmes rolling through the sawdust. Watson lifted a hand to cover his eyes, peeping between his fingers and cringing in sympathetic pain as Ah Ming launched a fresh attack, using new moves to drive Holmes back onto the floor before he could regain his feet.

"He's had it. He's done for!" the Cockney yelled, elbowing Watson in the ribs.

Watson nodded tightly and fixed his gaze on Holmes, awaiting the coup de grace. Blood ran down Holmes' chin from a split lip, and he dabbed at it with the back of his hand as Ah Ming retreated, allowing him to rise. Sweat glistened on his skin, and muck and sawdust clung to his body. Dispassionately, Watson registered the grazes to Holmes' elbows and ribs and calculated the scale of the bruising that would come out later.

Ah Ming leapt. Holmes fumbled his steps, almost falling out of the chalk circle. Unable to bear it any longer, Watson cried out, "For God's sake, Holmes!"

Whether or not he was audible above the yells of the crowd, Watson couldn't be sure, but when Holmes crawled to his feet yet again, Watson sensed a change. It took him several moments before he realised what he'd been witnessing. All this time, Holmes had allowed himself to be beaten so as to gauge and learn from his opponent. The look of intensity on his face roused Watson's suspicions, and when Holmes stopped dancing and started prowling, Watson knew without doubt that Ah Ming's luck had run out.

Holmes attacked in a blur of motion that combined a swordsman's lunge with the same open-handed punch Ah Ming had used on him at the start of the bout. Instead of aiming at the throat, Holmes flicked his hand up and slammed his elbow into the centre of Ah Ming's chest, then followed through with a backwards punch to the side of the young man's head. The move brought him up close to his opponent, and Holmes sidestepped, dropping forward to sweep one leg back. Ah Ming fell, scrabbling for balance, and Holmes performed a jump-twist, delivering a roundhouse kick that sent Ah Ming sprawling.

The crowd gave a collective gasp. Ah Ming dragged himself to his feet, his concentration splintered with anger. He jumped at Holmes, who stepped in to meet his strike halfway, ducked at the last moment, and knocked Ah Ming to the floor again.

Watson felt strangely breathless. Desire knifed inside him, building into an ache that threatened his composure. He knew it was normal for a man to derive pleasure from certain stimuli, violence being one of those stimuli and competition being another. In all likelihood he would find this fight arousing without Holmes' participation.

He managed to fool himself with this thought for approximately twenty seconds before he crumbled and admitted his arousal was caused purely by the sight of Holmes half naked and laughing, streaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his skull and his eyes alight with unholy glee. It roused memories of how he looked in bed after sex, the sheets rumpled beneath him, his chest heaving and his limbs languorous, a purr of satisfaction on his lips and a dreamy quality to his gaze.

Watson shifted, feeling the burn of embarrassment across his cheeks. His body stirred, lust gnawing at him, and in desperation he brought the tip of his cane down hard on his right foot. The pain was enough to recall him to his senses and he coughed, forcing himself to look at Ah Ming.

The young man staggered to his feet and gathered his energy, balancing his weight and rocking back and forth. His father shouted from the crowd, but Ah Ming showed no sign of listening to him. Fury blazed in his eyes as he glared at Holmes, and Watson knew this would be his downfall.

Ah Ming bounced into a crouch then sprang upright, tumbling forward to kick out. Holmes jumped to meet him; both men tangled. Ah Ming's anger ruled him and he struck wildly, catching Holmes with a blow to his jaw. Holmes went with it, letting his head rock back, but at the same time he aimed a one-two punch at Ah Ming's torso. The strike connected and Ah Ming doubled over. Whirling free, Holmes dropped and slid, kicked Ah Ming's legs from beneath him, then flipped up to land a solid knock-out blow to the side of the young man's head.

Ah Ming teetered for a moment, then slid facedown into the sawdust and lay motionless.

The crowd erupted into howls of disbelief. Watson sighed, half in amusement and half in resignation. He chided himself for his lack of faith in his friend, then turned and made his way out of the crowd, ignoring the cries of dismay behind him. It sounded like another free-for-all was breaking out, so he stood at the foot of the stairs and waited for Holmes to join him.

Five minutes later, the gong sounded again and the third bout of the evening began. Holmes wriggled free of the bellowing crowd and strolled in his direction, carrying his coat over one arm. Watson wondered where his third-best waistcoat had gone, but decided not to ask. Instead he raked Holmes with a look, taking in his disreputable appearance: hair an unruly mess, lip puffed and cut on one side, a bruise darkening his cheekbone, his shirt open over his chest and damp with sweat where it touched his skin, and his trousers covered in grime from rolling about on the floor.

Despite this, he seemed in more than tolerable good humour. From his trouser pocket he drew a handful of crumpled pound notes and waved them, his eyes glittering feverishly with the aftershocks of triumph. "What did I tell you?"

"Holmes..."

"My favour, if you please." Holmes leaned forward, his scent hot and feral. Watson jerked away with a shiver at their proximity, but Holmes only chuckled and pulled his cravat from inside the sleeve where Watson had stuffed it.

Annoyed, Watson snapped, "Outside. Now."

Holmes raised his eyebrows but allowed Watson to usher him out of the cellar and herd him up the stairs into the thick gloom of the night.

Fog felt its way tentatively, tendrils of grey cold crawling through the streets. Closer to the river it rolled, distorting sound and muffling echoes. Watson felt the heat leech away from him and walked faster over the cobbles. If only the fog could stifle his desire—but it seemed to feed it, seemed to create the illusion that he and Holmes were alone, wrapped together in a cloud of numbing silence.

Watson stopped at the corner of a warehouse. To his right, an alleyway stretched to the river, the grey waters visible only when the swirling fog lifted for a heartbeat. He leaned on his cane, the cold seeping into his bones, starting the pain in his leg, and he longed for warmth.

"Really, Watson, you could at least say something. Anything would do; I'm not particularly fussy about meaningful conversation at this time of night." Holmes walked towards him, footsteps measured, his cravat knotted over the open shirtfront. He had his hands in his pockets and wore his coat draped over his shoulders.

"Ah Ming is an extraordinary fighter. I've wanted to study his methods for a while now, but lacked the opportunity to do so... Watson, I just won you a decent amount of money. Eight pounds and nine shillings." He came close—too close—then stopped, looking up at Watson with mild enquiry. "You disapprove?"

Watson made a strangled sound and reached out, his hand twisting into the folds of the cravat. He hauled Holmes close and kissed him, glad of the fog to drown their sin. Holmes tasted of cheap liquor and the copper-sweetness of blood, the combination at once familiar yet alien and exciting.

"Oh," said Holmes when they broke apart. "You approve. I am wholeheartedly in agreement as to your methods of demonstrating said approval—"

"Holmes." Watson bit at his mouth, tasting the blood from the split lip. "Shut up." He rested his hand on Holmes' chest and felt the rumbling purr of pleasure. Watson kissed him again, his fingers insinuating beneath Holmes' shirt, tracing over the planes of muscle, stroking hair-roughened skin.

The mournful hoot of a ship's horn on the river reminded him of the danger of being seen. Watson grasped a handful of damp shirt and towed Holmes into the alleyway, the lightning-strike of his desire enabling him to forget the infernal ache in his leg and the cold and the general filth surrounding them.

Holmes seized the cane from Watson's grasp and tossed it to the ground, then pressed against the warehouse wall and gazed at him wide-eyed, managing to look both innocent and debauched. "My dear Watson," he began, his voice soft and growling, "how do you want—"

"Shut up." Watson swallowed Holmes' chuckle, shoving him hard against the wall. He forced Holmes' head back, dictating the kiss with fierce intensity. Holmes moaned beneath the onslaught, the sound causing a quicksilver rush of lust. Watson pulled away and stood back, considering the options available to him.

Before he could decide what he wanted most, Holmes turned and spread his hands against the crumbling brickwork, bracing himself. His eyes gleamed a challenge in the fog-hazed darkness of the alleyway. "Do it."

Watson moved against him, fumbling with Holmes' clothing. Urgency gripped him and he tore at buttons, fingernails catching first on fabric then scratching at heated skin. Holmes trembled under his touch, the long muscles of his thighs taut with anticipation, his breathing shallow. He leaned his forehead against the wall and offered his hindquarters as docile and quivering as an animal run to ground.

His passivity excited Watson and spurred him to take control. He stroked Holmes, the caresses raising a shiver as the chill of the air crept over naked skin. Watson cupped Holmes' balls, ran his thumb the length of his cock and slicked wetly over the tip. The soft sounds Holmes made in response drifted into the fog, became part of the night.

Watson stepped closer, a sly wriggle of his hips brushing the tweed of his trousers over bare skin as he unfastened the buttons.

Holmes hissed and turned his head. "There's no need for niceties. Feel free, old boy, to..." His speech ended in a grunt and a gasp as Watson lined up and pushed inside him. After a moment he caught his breath and continued, "As I was saying, feel free to use me in whichever way you wish."

Watson leaned into him, taking hold of Holmes' hip as he forced his way deeper, his breath panting at the heat and the tightness of muscle and the resistance. "I have no desire to cause you further pain tonight."

Holmes thrust back, relaxing enough to take Watson's cock right to the hilt. He bit out a groan, shuddering at the penetration. "I like it."

"Please don't talk."

"Why? Does it put you off your stroke? I—"

Unable to gag him with kisses, Watson clamped a hand around Holmes' mouth to ensure his silence. Holmes licked his palm, jabbing at Watson's fingers with the point of his tongue until he forced it, flickering snake-like, between the first and middle finger.

Watson cursed and splayed his hand, feeling Holmes' hot gasping breaths, feeling the occasional nip of his teeth. Lust burned through him, and Watson clawed his fingers, dragging them across Holmes' mouth. Holmes bit at him, catching the middle finger. Watson whimpered, working his finger in and out of Holmes' mouth in imitation of the sexual act, the scrape of teeth almost hard enough to hurt. Pressure built in his belly, curling around his spine, the blood pounding in his ears.

He could feel the fresh bruises flowering beneath his grip. Holmes mewled around Watson's fingers and dropped one hand from the wall to lean forward, taking their combined weight through his shoulder. Tremors racked Holmes' body, the mewling now one long drawn-out gasp of pleasure that staccatoed and crescendoed as he brought himself to the edge.

Watson tucked up against him, fighting to regain Holmes' attention. He wrenched his hand from Holmes' mouth and closed his fingers around Holmes' hand, forcing a change in rhythm. Holmes moaned and submitted, allowing Watson to guide him toward completion.

It didn't take long: an interlacing of fingers, a few hard strokes, the steady thrust of Watson's cock driving deeper, a squeeze to delay the inevitable descent into ecstasy, and then the hot spurts of release, Holmes shaking and his voice hoarse as he snapped and snarled through his orgasm.

Watson rode it out, pinning Holmes' writhing body to the wet brick. His heart crushed tight, Watson clung to him, the swell and crest of pleasure sharp and brutal. He cried out, the fog deadening the sound. Holmes moved against him, warm and slippery. All too soon the delirium faded, leaving Watson cold and exposed. Self-conscious, he withdrew and tucked his cock inside his trousers, half turning away to straighten his clothing and to retrieve his cane.

Holmes chuckled, the sound dark and rich. He rolled over against the wall, his adjustments much less discreet than Watson's. Before he fastened his trousers, Holmes slid a hand inside and closed his eyes for a moment, a brief flash of pleasure crossing his face. When he lifted his hand again, his fingertips glistened with pearlescent liquid—either his own spending or Watson's, or perhaps it was their seed combined. Holmes licked at it absently, sucked on his middle finger as if it were the stem of his pipe, then withdrew the digit from his mouth with a wet popping sound.

Watson blushed, shuffled his feet, and scratched at the ground with his cane.

Holmes laughed again. "This is why you like gambling. You're addicted to risk."

The assessment fitted too well for Watson to feel comfortable. Primly he responded, "I told you: I do it because I want to win."

Holmes gave him a look, half satisfaction, half amusement. "As do I, dear fellow." He patted Watson's cheek and sauntered out of the alley. "In fact, I only ever gamble on a sure thing."