Sherlock Holmes, shy? Never! He always said what was on his mind. But not this time. He couldn't. How could he possibly tell his dearest friend, when what he wanted was wrong? Not to mention illegal. No, Watson would scorn him, turn away and very probably move out of their shared accommodation. And that was something Sherlock Holmes could not stand; John Watson being completely apart from him, thinking he was a sinful sodomite.

Or worse, putting up a front that he believed this – Holmes had observed Watson's comings and goings (and once, when he was out, searched his room to see what he could find out about the good doctor) and he had formulated theories that would condemn Watson to the same level as he. In a locked drawer (hairpins were extremely useful) Holmes had found a couple of photographs of beautiful men, wearing frankly, not much.

But for Holmes to actually tell Watson he wanted him? The doctor would never respect him again! The great detective, shunning most emotions, a firm believer that love is simply a hindrance and a firm non-believer in heaven or hell suddenly turning around and saying that he had fallen for his best friend would ruin him. It would undermine everything he had ever stood for. At least, Holmes thought so.

It couldn't be then, that Watson often longed for some emotion from Holmes? That Watson's own theories were that Holmes was afraid of feeling? Afraid that he loved someone, and that he would simply get hurt. The detective was fragile, though nobody else would believe it.

It went on for weeks. Holmes trying to pluck up the courage to actually say something, then backing down and simply watching Watson (which had never been an unusual thing for him to do) before taking himself to the heights of pleasure in his own bedroom, stilted whispers of a name cried out as he came. It went on and it couldn't go on. Holmes was not satisfied. He wanted more.

Devious plans came almost naturally to Holmes, and he formed one to get the object of his desires. His disguises had fooled even Watson more than once, so why should this one fail? It helped that he was the same age as most of the rent boys that stood along Oxford Street when it began to get dark, that he had visited (though only to confirm the fact that Watson had indeed visited them for their services). Yes. Sherlock Holmes was going to pose as a rent boy and he would get his beloved Watson at last. Even if it meant nothing to the good doctor.

"Holmes, are you going out on Friday night?" the opportunity to put his plan into action came sooner than Holmes had anticipated.

"No, are you?"

"Yes, I was thinking about it. Perhaps I shall go to see a friend of mine." A friend, dear doctor? I believe he is more of a service! Holmes could not help but think, before smiling as warmly as he could muster. "I think you should, old boy, you mustn't lose touch with any acquaintances you may have! It won't do to have me as your only connection, you know that as well as I!" The easy banter was still easy, and Holmes enjoyed it. He felt a flicker of nervousness. If Watson found him out, he was in serious danger of losing it. But it was better to take the risk and get what he wanted, than play it safe and ache with desire until it destroyed their friendship.

Friday came. Watson left the house and Holmes was alone, knowing it was too early for Watson to have visited the rent boy parade yet. He would have a few drinks first, and that was in Holmes' favour. But the detective knew he didn't have a lot of time, so as soon as the front door shut, he was in front of the mirror, applying eyeliner to darken his eyes and make them less recognisable. Powder to make his cheeks paler and a brush through his hair to make it lie straighter and flatter, and his appearance, at least, was as convincing as he could make it. There was the matter of his clothes next, but – being the good detective he was and planning ahead – he had sorted that before time. Tight trousers, almost like those one wore for riding, black, and nearly knee length boots (with a slight heel so his height provided no clue to Watson), with a loose, pressed, white shirt. He placed a shiny new hat upon his straightened hair that hung down to his jawline, and slipped out of the house before the housekeeper noticed his appearance. He caught sight of himself in a mirror on the way out, and looked unlike the Sherlock Holmes everybody knew, but did not look particularly special; he would not stand out in a crowd, and that was what he wanted.

Holmes found a cab, and had it take him to Oxford street in all due haste, arriving there luckily before Watson. The detective took his place wordlessly in a line of rent boys, keeping a sharp eye out for a certain person. He didn't have long to wait before the doctor rounded the corner, glancing around him with cleverly hidden apprehension. It was good to see he was learning to be more careful.

As soon as Sherlock saw John, he was upon him, crossing the street, pretending to be suspicious too, acting as if he did not particularly want to be seen. "Excuse me sir, do you have a light?" Holmes asked, in a cockney accent which he had perfected. It was a common way for solicitations to begin, Holmes had noted, and John was easily falling for it. He was offered a match, and took it, shaking it out. "Thanks for the favour. I suppose I owe you something now." His voice had lowered flirtily, and he could tell Watson was hooked. "My hotel room is not far from here," Holmes continued, having booked a room already.

Watson allowed himself to be led to the room, and Holmes found it far easier than he should have to pretend to be a rent boy. He gestured for his client to take a seat, and Watson did so, perching on the edge of the bed. Holmes smirked, and slunk over to sit on his lap, ghosting his lips over Watson's neck, though not kissing him. He knew rent boys should not kiss unless their client wanted it. It tortured him though. Watson's lips were what he wanted most; such sweet things came from them.

Luckily, the needy doctor pulled Holmes' face to his, kissing him desperately, almost as if he wished it were someone else. As if the rent boy was someone he hadn't seen in a long time. Holmes didn't care, he just wanted those lips. He would take what he could get. Watson broke away and fumbled at Holmes' shirt. He obliged, and slid it off, his own fingers moving to Watson's, pushing the material aside, his too-tight trousers almost painful. He moved his lips down Watson's neck, kissing to his chest, abusing nipples with his tongue, first one, then the other, while long, lean fingers tangled in his hair, pressing him into the skin.

This was what he wanted, had always wanted. Especially when Watson laid him out on the bed with his strong, doctor's hands, and undid the fastenings on his trousers, causing him to groan as his erection was freed. He was the one who should give pleasure though, so he ran his hands down Watson's sides as the doctor knelt above him, Holmes' fingers sliding under the waistband of the doctor's trousers, flicking open the button and pushing them down his hips. His Watson, his Boswell, so beautiful, slim and strong with a light tan. He would bend to him, arch for him, do what Watson wanted him to do.

Despite himself, Holmes trembled with desire. Watson looked into his face, and even with a 'stranger' Holmes could see care and affection in the other man's eyes. If only he knew who his prostitute really was. Holmes ached to tell, but could not. When Watson reached for a bottle of bath oil though, Holmes had to hold up a hand to stop him. "I apologise but I must confess. This is my first time you see," he cleared his throat a little nervously. "I'm still a virgin." He stated it quietly, bluntly.

Watson smiled at him, softly lighting his eyes, and he promised he would be gentle. That Watson would speak to someone he (did not think) he knew so kindly, Holmes could not help but smile back. He relaxed himself at the doctor's words, and the bath oil felt nice on his skin as skilled fingers travelled down, further and further until they were brushing his thighs only slightly.

When Watson did probe inside him, it felt nothing but right, but Holmes knew Watson could never be feeling as intensely as he did. He couldn't help but blush and gasp when Watson added a second finger, easily, slowly, so Holmes was caused little pain. True, he suffered a little discomfort as he was prepared, but it was nowhere near as painful as the situations his inexperienced (in this field anyway) mind devised.

A warm voice told him to relax, and Sherlock obeyed, not realising he had tensed in anticipation. It was then that Watson actually penetrated him, and it caused Holmes to intake his breath sharply, half in pleasure, half in pain. He felt himself being stretched, but it was not wholly unpleasant. Watson was the one who moved in a slow, almost lazy rhythm. And Sherlock Holmes belonged to him. The detective closed his eyes and allowed sensations to flow over him, feeling long hands wander over him, caressing his skinny torso and legs as they wrapped around strong hips. The doctor was slender, but Holmes was skinnier, with a pale smoothness to him.

Then Watson touched something inside Holmes, sending shockwaves right through him, causing him to actually convulse in ecstasy. Never, never had he imagined it could be like this. Especially when Watson began to languidly stroke along Holmes' arousal, at the same pace as his thrusts.

It wasn't long after that before Holmes felt the heat coil in his stomach and spilled himself, Watson following soon after, riding out his orgasm along with Holmes, hands rubbing over wherever they could reach. Eventually, Watson disentangled himself from Holmes, and broke all contact. The detective felt even more exposed than he was, knowing he could never have this again, and his heart sank. He wanted nothing more than to stay in the doctor's arms, warm and happy in the afterglow, but the role he was playing forbade it.

"Thank you, sir," he whispered. "You were very gentle." He didn't think the doctor had heard, because he had turned away. He didn't intend for the doctor to hear. But as he wriggled into his undershorts again and sat up, intending to leave, he felt arms wrap around him from behind.

"Thank you, Sherlock."