Date: Sat, 13 Mar 2010 09:39:09 -0700
From: Jay roberts <diplomat1501@msn.com>
Subject: "Watson & Holmes"  by Jay Roberts

+++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