Dr. Watson's Secret Files

I assure you that every time I had to plot to kill you, I cried. But I had to do it. However, my sentimentalism prevented me from sending my best men to do the job, thus ensuring your survival. Finally, I became weary. I decided to face off with you, personally. I knew I wouldn't stand a chance against you for your physical prowess was well known. I have felt you power more than once, but I knew if death ever came to me, it should come through you. I wrote this letter and gave it to one of my most trusted lieutenants, Col.Sebastian Morgan. He was angry, but I gave him explicit orders not to avenge my death and make certain that my orders were obeyed. He bowed and stalked off. Since you are reading this, the orders must have been obeyed.

I end this letter with deep sadness and regret. My only consolation is that I died in your arms.

Your dear friend,

Moriarty.

P.S. I confess that I dream about the gearshift of love every night.

I was shocked to my core. The word enmity was synonymous with those two. Holmes was the apotheosis of good, whole Moriarty personified evil. The fact that they had been friends was simply impossible. And yet here was the letter, in Moriarty's own distinct hand, almost tender in tone. I now understood why Holmes always spoke of him with respect.

I was sitting there stunned, with the letter in my hand, when Holmes walked in.

He snatched the letter from my hand and quickly read it. I could see tears brimming in his eyes and no more proof of authenticity was needed. He walked to his bureau and locked the letter inside.

"Not a word of this to anyone, Watson," he told me in a tremulous voice.

I nodded. "So it is true, the letter?"

"Every word of it. Morgan must have posted it before he tried to kill me. He tried to obey his boss's orders while tring to break them. Nice effort."

"What caused the breakup?"

"I can't tell you, Watson. All I can say is that I started smoking cocaine to forget about him. The habit still endures. Even cocaine didn't help me. After I met Morairty, I was thinking of changing my major to pure mathematics. Once we broke up, I gave up the divine sciences for the more mundane practical sciences. It was an attempt at cleaning myself of his memory. It was futile. It was Musgrave who finally rescued me, to some semblance of sanity. He took me to America where I lost my virginity to his cousin after a long courtship. It in a way distracted me and helped me recover. But I found the act disgusting. She squealed like a pig. A woman has to conduct herself with little more class. Among the women I've met since then, only Irene Adler has shown herself deserving of my organ." Holmes spoke in a painful voice.

"What about Charles Augustus Milverton's maid ('The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton')?"

"She had herpes. I detected it easily. But it had to be done and I managed to do it with words, thank God."

I could find no words to console my friend. He was in a pain. I now understood his addiction to cocaine. If cocaine could not help him, then how strong his motions must be, I wondered. And he wanted Irene Adler...

I promised him that I it would remain a secret and that he had my support. Dazed, I walked out. But the phrase gearshift of love intrigued me. I referred the encyclopaedia and found that gearshift was a part of the new mode of transportation, car. I remembered Holmes telling me that Moriarty had special interest in cars, but I couldn't work out the puzzling phrase. Later I forgot about it.

***************End of flashback**************

I am dumb, but not dumb enough not to make the connection. Moriarty was referring to Holmes' organ. Holmes organ must have reminded him of the gearshifts he had seen in Germany. He had affectionately nicknamed it.

And the letter referred to 'satisfaction', 'felt your strength'. The tone was intimately affectionate. An affection amounting to such intimacy could exist in only one relationship in the world.

Holmes and Moriarty were lovers.

A bond of love that must have broken when Moriarty got jealous of Musgrave. Of course, Holmes must have been faithful to Moriarty, but his adamant nature had led him to stick with Musgrave. Moriarty saw red and broke up. And, as everyone knows, Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned. In this case, the two men's intelligence had fuelled the fury into the rivalry of the century. (The author thinks that it is the forerunner of Dumledore-Grindelwald relationship). I almost slipped into a coma with the shock of realisation.

And yet, how could he get himself up with women? My limited medical knowledge did cover the term for it.

Good God, Holmes was a bisexual.

I saw Holmes smiling at me. He nodded. He had read my mind again and was saying I was right. Adler was his only chance at absolution. He would cleanse himself of the pain of Moriarty's love in the holy water of Irene Adler's love hole. I realised now why he had been so excited when Irene had sent a letter suggesting consensual sex. It was his last chance and he would use it. I was happy for him.

And Holmes moved towards the smiling Irene Adler.

Holmes moved with ceremonial steadiness. His rock hard penis never bobbed; it stood perpendicularly, proudly, like a flag post. He sat on the bed and began stroking her nubile body. Irene's body rose up to meet his violinist's fingers. Her eyes closed with pleasure.

Holmes unbuttoned her dress with the smoothness of an artist. When all buttons were undone, a narrow strip of white skin exposed itself. Not attempting to remove her dress, he pressed his nose at the swell of her breasts and inhaled deeply. He kept sniffing as he traced a downward path to her crotch.

There, he paused for a moment before parting the skirt. I could see the dark tangle of her pubic hairs. Suddenly, like a stork spearing a fish, his roman nose went down and into her vagina. Irene screamed at the breach and began moaning uncontrollably as he breathed in, savouring her fumes. With an agility of a trained wrestler, he took up an unorthodox position that looked a lot like the number 69.

She groped for his penis and began massaging it. Holmes grunted and pushed his nose deeper into her. As her body arched up, the dress came off completely, exposing the firm and bobbing breasts to my view. She lifted her arms upwards and backwards and grabbed the bedpost. Her nails began scratching the oak frame in agonised pleasure while her body undulated in rhythm with Holmes's breathing. Holmes now had his tongue out and began feasting on her like a hungry puppy.

Holmes wasn't sated easily and Irene's body was now drenched in sweat. The oral feast had gone on for half an hour. When Holmes finally sat up, I could see his nose gleaming. The stains around his mouth made him look like a boy who had eaten a cake too greedily. He took deep breaths to cool down his lungs before he kneeled on the bed and parted her legs. Irene was breathing heavily, all the time. The animations of her heaving breasts were delightful. He was about to enter her when Irene stopped him.

"This encounter must be special, Holmes," she said sulkily. "You insult me using these crude techniques? Indian Tantric position is the only worthy position for our intellectual calibre."

Holmes didn't reply. He was far too spiritually engaged to get frustrated. He complied. He sat upright, leaned against the bedstead and parted his legs. She smiled and got up. My eyes goggled as it witnessed her curvaceous form unwinding. She stood up with her profile slightly tilted towards me. I licked my lips as I marvelled at her firm, quivering breasts, the sculpted shoulders and waist, the long legs and the fleshy buttocks. She took a step towards him and his extended arms captured her by the buttocks and pressed her middle to his face. His nose quickly zoomed in on her vagina with the accuracy of a bloodhound that had acquired a familiar scent. She pushed him back and waved an admonishing finger. She was clearly sore of the marathon feasting. Holmes wasn't too disappointed though, for she was moving down.

She slid down slowly, with her vagina centred on his penis. As the wall of flesh moved inexorably downward before him, Holmes's fingers and nose began working on it as a team, feeding his olfactory and tactile senses in tandem. I observed he had deliberately closed his eyes. Had he kept them open, he would have collapsed from the sensory overload. I'm not exaggerating; I was sitting far away, feeding only with my eyes but I was already feeling dizzy. The sensory waves generated by Irene were too powerful a mortal. I was a scene from Zeus's bedroom. The Greeks poets would have gone crazy.

Once her hands were in range of his penis, she made a grab for it. Letting the anticipation build, she hovered at a millimetre above his gearshift for sometime. Her muscles tensed and locked, and her face was twitching. Holmes face resembled a meditating saint. Heat from their fever of anticipation was making the room warm. It was a sight to behold. I wished Michaelangelo were alive to record this scene in stone for posterity.

Holmes suddenly came alive. In one swift, fluid motion, he lifted his hips and plunged into her. Irene's tight vagina impeded it for a heartbeat, but it was no match for Holmes's steel rod. Holmes went through her as a hot knife goes through molten butter. She screamed in shock and her body erupted upwards, but then sagged back, accepting him completely. She threw her neck back, arching her body, and pulled him to her breasts. Holmes took the offering in his mouth and went to work. His tongue darted over her breasts with a vigour that was nearly violence. An ordinary woman could not have taken it, but Irene was his match and while she was pliant, she absorbed the assault easily. She manoeuvred her body relative to his so that there was less of pain and more of pleasure. Her face went into paroxysms, which expressed exactly what she was feeling. Shakespeare would have loved this girl.

They ground at each other for a long time. Holmes's face was serene and contended while Irene's was a mask of intense ecstasy. She handled him well, slowing his violent thrusts with her hands and thighs, so that he hit her slowly and giving her the maximum pleasure. I could also see that she was gripping his penis with her vaginal walls to absorb his momentum. I was amazed for she performed as if she was born to do this.

I lost count of time, but it must have been half an hour at least. I was amazed at their stamina. They were shagging without pause but neither had climaxed. Considering the pagan intensity of their act, it was a stupendous performance, the ultimate display of sexual skill. They were Vatyasana's apt pupils.

Fifteen minutes later, the ending began. Holmes face had changed expression. He was scowling and his rhythm began to falter. Clearly, some great new force was originating from his loins. I could see no change in Irene's face, but she was losing control over his movement. He began slamming into her with manic intensity now. She cried out in pain and began manoeuvring their intertwined bodies into the missionary position. He was now on top of her. Her ankles dug into his buttocks to act as a brake and her fingernails were ruining his skin.

Then came the almighty explosion. It came after a series of slow heavy thrusts during which the lovers were practically trying to stuff their whole bodies into each other. Holmes drove in for one final thrust and then held it there. Irene's body rose upward and then suddenly, they roared in unison. Their bodies went into spasms and after a few moments, I could see white fluids leaking out of her vagina. Then it was over and they parted. For some time, they giggled and kissed each other. Then they rolled over and went into quick slumber.

Once I was sure that they were both asleep, I released my stiff penis and began stroking it. I leant back on the chair and closed my eyes. It had been too long since I had sex with my wife.

Suddenly, something wet closed over my penis.

It was Irene, I saw, and she already had my penis in her mouth. Her breasts heaved like pendulums and her head was bobbing vigorously. I recovered from the shock and began feeling the delight in my loins. My hands gripped the chair. Just as I was about to explode, she stopped moving her head and massaged the base of my penis until the climax dissipated. Then she started over again. I groaned and looked at Holmes. He was fast asleep, oblivious to the world.

She repeated her game many times. I was drained of energy as the skilled woman toyed with my pent up virility. When she finally let me explode, I was unable to move. I just slithered down to the floor and began dozing. My eyes shuttered open momentarily and saw a hazy naked figure of a woman scribbling a letter. Once she finished, she began dressing up. Then, she walked towards the mantelpiece and placed the letter on it. She waved in my direction on the way out.

When my eyes opened again, I was looking into the face of Mr. British Bulldog himself, Inspector Lestrade. His face twisted in disgust as he shook me awake. The events of the night came back to me and I hurriedly tucked my penis back into my trousers and got up.

Holmes was up, too, and he was tying his dressing gown. He looked like a sailor who had survived a shipwreck. He was gazing at the mantelpiece. Lestrade called out and asked him what the blazes he was looking at. Then something amazing happened.

Lestrade walked up to Holmes and punched him. Holmes staggered back and I feared for Lestrade as Holmes's skill as a boxer was legendary. Then even more surprising thing happened. He didn't punch back.

"You bloody traitor", Lestrade screamed. "You were shagging a bloody whore while your country's fate depended on you. You bloody promised me that you would not let that Serbian assassin out of your sight. I begged you too keep the police in the loop. You snubbed me saying we were worthless. And while you were banging your balls with your stupid Doctor friend here, that Serbian fucker (the onomatopoeiaic American slang was just catching on in England) went on and out of England and assassinated the Austrain Crown prince."

Holmes was speechless. Lestrade took deep breaths, trying to control his temper. After several minutes, he spoke again. This time he was calm.

"You don't make mistakes frequently, Holmes, but you were due for one. And the mistake you made is going to start a war that is going to make the Mongol invasions seem like Charity missions. Churchill, Lloyd George and all the saints of God cannot stop it coming now. Do not ever try to snoop again Mr. Holmes. If you have honour in your blood, get the fuck out of this country."

Lestrade turned on his heel and left.

Behind my shading hands, my mouth grinned evilly. I knew what he was talking about.

After all, I was Moriarty's spy inside Holmes's circle and I was passing on information that he was following the troubled Serbian youth, Gavrilo Princip. I didn't know that Irene was with the Professor too, however, and was pleased.

Yes, my dear readers, I, Dr.Watson and Irene Adler are Moriarty's spies. I was 'turned' even before I met Holmes. You didn't believe I could think up such a brilliant plan to pass the medical finals exam, did you? That was the Professor's plan, and thus my debt to him.

*******************Flashback******************

The day before the anatomy finals. I was sitting miserably on the bench by the University sidewalk, trying to cram anatomy. The sidewalk was open to the public and people often took walks there. On that cold evening, very few were around.

The more I tried to cram, the faster it slipped out of my mind. I slammed the bench in frustration and started crying. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a distinguished looking man of 30.

"What ails you, son?" he asked gently.

I needed some support, even if it was from a stranger. "Tomorrow is the exam and I can't cram this stuff. I'm going to fail" I blubbered.

He sat beside me. "Is it the anatomy exam?"

"Yes"

"And you say you can't read enough to pass?"

I nodded mutely. No harm in letting him know I was dumb.

"I might be able to help you. Is your examiner a man called Pickett?"

"Yes" I replied somewhat surprised.

"Ah. Then I can help you. But you must promise to follow my instructions to the letter."

I nodded. I was ready for anything. Then he described the plan I mentioned so vividly in the beginning. I scribbled furiously, taking down his every word. When he had finished he rose.

"Of course, I expect a payback. When your results are out, and if you have passed, send a telegram to this address. We will meet at the pub across the road"

He walked away. I wanted to ask his name, but he had already turned the corner. I had little time, so I rushed out to execute his instructions.

Results came. I had passed. I sent him a telegram telling him to come to the pub at 5 o clock. He came on the dot. I pushed a drink to him.

He made no move to touch it. Instead, he said, "I've come for my payback."

"I'm ready to pay it. Never been more grateful in my life."

"Then the payback will last for the rest of you life."

I looked up in surprise. The man's eyes were magnetic. They held me down. "Ok," I mumbled.

"I want you to serve in the army. Then come back and setup a practice in London. Seek out a fellow called Sherlock Holmes and lodge with him. He is a private detective. I will supply contact details through this pub. Befriend him and stay close to him. Never talk about your education to him. Don't attempt to contact me hereafter. Whenever you have any information about any case he is working on, deposit it with this pub's barman. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"You are a deep cover agent. I will supply you with whatever you need. Your safety and secrecy are paramount. Try to get a life. Holmes is a brilliant fellow and he will help you. Rely on him whenever you dumb brain can't work out something, but never forget you work for me."

His voice was deep and menacing. I was bound by the code of honour to boot. I swallowed the insult, nodded mutely and asked, "What is this with you and this Shamrock Jolnes?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm working out a great plan and this person is the only one capable of foiling it. You are my shield and another agent is my sword against him. Set you mind on this, if you please. Holmes is cleverer than most men and it won't do if you can't even get his name straight."

"Don't worry, sir. I will. I don't forget the hand that fed me"

"Then that will be all. I pray that you will have strength to do what is required when the moment comes. Godspeed to you."

"Sir, your name," I bleated.

He turned around and smiled ant me. The eyes were the coldest I'd ever seen. "My name is Professor Moriarty."

**************End of Flashback*****************

That was how Irene had so brilliantly managed to outmaneuver Holmes in "A Scandal in Bohemia". I was supplying Irene with inside information all along. The adventure was the first meeting of Holmes and Irene and she had made a powerful impression. Whenever I needed some information, or had to deposit some, I would go to my old college pub. I never figured out how the Professor knew what I needed, but the barman always gave me what I wanted.

I was enraged when Holmes got the better of him, and was consoled only by the fact that Holmes was dead too. When Holmes returned, I waited in vain for a signal to finish him off. It never came, and Sebastian Morgan got arrested in vain. Once I saw the love-cum-reminiscence letter, I knew the Professor had setup some bigger plan, possibly revenge. I never doubted his ability to run things from the grave. His death was setup, after all. The Professor would have set a great social machine that could run well past his lifetime. (It is the author's humble opinion that Dr. Watson might be the one of the first authors to use the 'unreliable narrator' story telling style, like Edward Norton in 'Fight Club')