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acdholmesfestTitle: The Reigate Revival
Recipient:mightymads
Author:mistyzeo
Rating: Explicit/NC17
Characters, including any pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Warnings: None.
Summary: After the conclusion of the matter of "The Reigate Squires," Holmes and Watson find time to reconnect.
Disclaimer: I do what I want.
Given that my friend Colonel Hayter’s establishment was, as I have said, a bachelor one, it was no surprise to me that at a quarter past ten on the evening of April 26th, the door between Holmes’s bedroom and my own creaked open. I had spotted the connecting door the day before, and I was sure that the Colonel had prepared us these rooms intentionally, but I had not dared to hope to use it. The collapse of Holmes’s constitution in the wake of his case abroad had alarmed me, and I thought it best to give him space and time to rest. His ordeal in Lyons from which I (dare I say it?) had rescued him had made it clear that he had required quiet and solitude, even though it had pained me sorely to be apart from him for so long.
But the affair with the Cunninghams had certainly revived him, despite what they’d put him through, and he had eaten well that evening at supper with the Colonel and Mr Acton. Perhaps the rest of his spirits had been restored. At once my heart was pounding with anticipation, and I sat up as he crossed the room to the side of my bed.
"I say, Watson," he whispered in greeting.
"My dear fellow," said I, pulling back the blankets. He climbed nimbly in and pressed himself alongside my body. His hands and feet were rather cold, but I embraced him all the same. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, a little rough with stubble due to the hour, and then my mouth, his lips warm and soft.
"Do you suppose the household is asleep?" I murmured.
"Do you suppose it matters?" he teased, his dark eyes shining at me in the moonlight. I kissed him again, and this time he sank back into my pillows and I leaned over him, supported on my elbow, my other hand running down his long flank.
"Not particularly."
"I daresay the Colonel will be put out that we didn’t invite him," Holmes said, his hand sliding into my hair at the base of my skull, "but I’ve never been inclined to share."
I spluttered at his frankness, but he wasn’t wrong. The Colonel was well known in certain circles for his exclusive and lavish parties, most of which ended in an elaborate trade of partners. I’d confirmed before we arrived that this week was not one when he’d intended to host such a party.
Holmes laughed softly and wrapped his leg around mine. He wasn’t hard beneath his nightshirt yet, but the intention was unmistakable. He kissed me again, deeply and slowly, and whispered, "I’m sorry to have made you wait."
"Not at all," I replied, kissing his cheeks and neck and mouth once more. "You know I don’t mind waiting."
"You do take such good care of me." He laughed again. "What a treat, to have something so simple arise just when I needed it. How ever did you know?"
"I didn’t." Nor had I approved of him getting involved in the first place, but of course having had an engaging puzzle to solve would put him back into a sunny mood. He liked to feel accomplished, and we are all of us susceptible to instant gratification.
"Well, you have restored me," Holmes said, and now I felt the swell of his prick against my hip as he pushed against me once more. My own responded, the blood pounding in my veins, and I slipped my hand beneath the hem of his nightshirt to get at his bare skin. His thighs parted easily and he settled on his back, gazing up at me with a fond smile.
"What would you like?" I asked, caressing the length of his thigh and dancing my fingers towards the apex of his legs.
Holmes carded his fingers through my hair. "Your touch," he said, "perhaps your mouth, for starters."
"There’s a tin of petrolatum in my valise," I offered.
Holmes shook his head. "Not tonight, I think," said he. "I don’t have the constitution for it just yet."
I smiled and kissed his lips. "As you wish." He’d been sorely tried today; even though his sudden collapse this morning had been an affectation, the wrenched wrist and attempted strangulation had been very real.
His cock was halfway hard, bobbing upward from his groin and stiffening as I began to tough it lightly with my fingertips. He is a sensitive man, prone to overstimulation, and a slow warm-up is to his taste. I sometimes liked things a little more rough-and-tumble, which he was usually game to indulge, but tonight I wanted to take my time with him. I caressed his bollocks, holding them in my palm and rubbing them slowly against the base of his prick. He sighed against my cheek and scratched his fingernails across my scalp. His other hand lay on the pillow beside his head, fingers clenching and unclenching as I touched him.
I scratched my own fingernails in the hair at his groin, gently, touching the base of his prick almost accidentally with the V of my thumb and forefinger. He pressed his hips up into my hand, whining softly in my ear, until I took pity on him and closed my hand around the column of his cock. The sigh that came from deep in his chest was most gratifying. It had been such a long time, weeks, since I’d held him like this.
He was plucking at the back of my nightshirt, trying to pull it up over my head. "Take this off," he demanded. "I want to feel you."
It meant I had to let go of him, but we separated for the sake of nakedness, and in a moment our nightshirts were cast aside and I was pressed alongside the long, warm length of his body, my cock poking hard into his hip. This time when I took his prick in my hand, it was fully erect and dewy at the tip with moisture.
"Oh God, Watson," he said in my ear, the most beautiful words I’d ever heard, "I beg you will take your time, lest I come off early and disappoint you."
"You could never disappoint me," I vowed, but I moved slowly nonetheless. I stroked him up and down with reverence, feeling the velvety slide of his skin over the iron core of his cock, relishing the wet pulse of fluid that leaked over my fingers.
We kissed as I touched him, lips sliding together, tongues just brushing. He was making soft noises in his throat. His hips churned, rocking into the pressure of my hand even as the muscles in his stomach tensed to keep himself in control. I was so focused on him that my own arousal was an afterthought, something building and growing in the background. I knew when he finally touched me in return it would not be long at all before my own crisis.
The bed we were in was generously sized, big enough for two to sleep without touching, or three to mingle in comfort, but we were pressed together in the middle, barely taking up more space than one person would. In the dark, with Holmes breathing and moaning in my ear, his hand restless upon my back, it was as if we existed in the very centre of the universe. Nothing else mattered. Tomorrow we’d be on the train home to Baker Street, back to our lives, but tonight all that concerned me was the way his cock twitched and flexed in my hand, and the way his exhale felt upon my temple.
I was as attentive as a doctor should be with any patient, listening to the change in his breathing as his passion mounted, feeling the wetness that slicked my hand and eased its passage, inhaling the thick scent of his arousal, and tasting his eager tongue in my mouth. I paused in my stroking to stroke my thumb over the tender head of his cock and he jolted, moaning against my lips.
"Put your finger in me," he said, reaching down to grasp my wrist, "I don’t care about the jelly, just–"
I was only too happy to oblige, rearranging the blankets over my shoulders and sliding down his body to kneel between his thighs. I stuck my middle finger in my mouth, tasting the salt wetness of his pre-ejaculate, and once it felt sufficiently slicked, pressed it against his fundament. I took his cock in my other hand, relishing his groan, and bent my head as I eased my finger in.
His prick twitched and I felt the pulse of fluid when my lips touched its head. My finger sank fully into his body. I gave him a moment to adjust to the sting of penetration, tonguing his slit. I felt his hands come to rest upon my head, and then he was pushing my hair away from my eyes and whispering, "Good lord, John."
I smiled and began to move my finger, at the same time opening my mouth to take the head of his cock in. He was slick and salty against my tongue. I groaned at the way he filled my mouth. It was growing warm beneath the blankets, and my cock hung heavy between my thighs.
Holmes’s fingers moved in my hair, restless, and above me I could hear him breathing hard. I glanced up at him; his nipples were stiff peaks, and his head was stretched back. The beginnings of a ring of bruises was visible on his throat. God damn the Cunninghams. I stroked Holmes’s cock as I sucked it, my hand slick with my own saliva as it escaped the corners of my mouth.
"Slowly," he reminded me, breathless. I obeyed, slowing almost to a crawl, which made him huff in annoyance. I moved my finger inside him and the huff turned into a gasp. "There."
I knew very well what I was about, but I smiled around his prick and touched him again. The sea-salt taste of him intensified; he was beginning to squirm. As slow as I might go, he wasn’t going to last. I worked my finger in and out, relishing his soft moans. His hips rocked, pushing his prick deeper into my mouth.
I stopped to adjust my position, ignoring Holmes’s whine of disappointment, and lay on my belly between his thighs. His cock went back into my mouth, and now I could take him deep and fuck him at the same time, all the while grinding my own prick into the bed. I felt myself leaking against my belly, and couldn’t stop my hips from rolling. If Holmes wouldn’t last long, I wouldn’t be far behind.
"Wait," he said, as if reading my mind, "John, I beg-- let me finish you, I want you to--" He was scrabbling at my head, first holding me in place so he could push his cock into my mouth, and then holding himself rigid and urging me to move. He didn’t finish the thought, and I could feel him growing closer and closer to his peak.
I reached up to pinch his nipples, each one in turn, and his hand clenched tight in my hair. The muscles in his stomach tensed. My own cock surged in sympathy, my arousal tightening between my legs. He was fucking my mouth, and my mouth met the tight, soft curls of hair at the base of his cock on every stroke. My finger inside him rubbed his spot again and again, and in a moment I knew he would be at his crisis. My heart was pounding, my throat slick and my eyes wet with the effort. The volume of Holmes’s moans had increased, so much that in any other house I might worry. I didn’t often get to hear him cry out, even in our own home. It was music to my ears. I sucked harder, cherishing his vocalisation.
All at once he went taut, his voice catching, and his prick surged in my mouth. His body clamped down on my finger. I held him as he shook and spurted, swallowing what I could, wringing him dry.
When he subsided, he let out a great sigh and his grip on the sides of my head relaxed. He stroked my hair apologetically. I pulled off with a wet noise and wiped my mouth on his bare thigh. His cock twitched as I eased my finger out of him.
"Come here," he said, pulling on my shoulders so that I would rise up and cover him with my body. My cock slid in the mess I had made of the apex of his thighs. Holmes wrapped his arms and legs around me, pressing his face into my neck, and I held him as he caught his breath.
Finally he murmured, "Oh my dear fellow, how I missed you," and I sighed against his abused throat.
"And I you," I replied, pulling back to look at him. We gazed at one another in the dark, smiling, and then Holmes worked his hand between us to touch the head of my prick.
"And this," Holmes said, just as seriously, looking into my eyes. I saw his mouth twitch as he tried not to grin.
"Do shut up," I laughed, and eased myself off of him to lay at his side. He rolled with me, stretching himself along the length of my body. He gripped my cock again and leaned over me, pressing kisses to my temple and cheek.
"I did," he insisted, stroking me slowly.
"Six dozen congratulatory telegrams says you didn’t have time," I countered. I dug my fingers into the muscles of his back and tried not to fuck his fist, even though I would have been entirely welcome to do so.
He chuckled and nibbled my ear. "I shouldn’t have to remind you of my capacity to think of two things at once." He worked his fist around the head of my prick, ratcheting my pleasure up.
"No, you’re right," I gasped, "I take it back." Six weeks we’d been apart, and I felt my body would take days to adjust to having him back.
Holmes grinned and kissed me again, stroking me hard and fast now, the way I liked it. I clung to him desperately, unable to stifle my own noises of pleasure. Soon I couldn’t kiss back, and only breathed open-mouthed against his lips. Holmes was smiling. He murmured encouragement, soft praise and appreciation that served to bring about my orgasm accompanied by a flood of emotion. I found tears pricking the corners of my eyes, even as I spilled over Holmes’s fist and shook in his arms.
He worked me through the sensations, kissing my face and wringing a few more spasms of pleasure out of me with his clever hand. His body was warm and firm against mine; his voice in my ear carried me through. When I finally could open my eyes again, he was smiling down at me.
"How are you?" he murmured.
I laughed weakly, turning my face away. I was sticky and exhausted and all the excitement of the day (and week, and month) had caught up with me. Holmes cleaned me tenderly with his (or possibly my) discarded nightshirt, and then tucked himself into my side and lay his head upon my shoulder. He rested his hand upon my sternum, and I felt him playing absently with the hair upon my chest. Once my breathing had slowed, he picked his head up once more. I had collected myself by then.
"I really am feeling much better, myself," he said. "I fear I have not properly expressed my gratitude to you."
"Was this not your method of expression?"
"Only part, I suppose. You didn’t have to come for me in Lyons."
"What rot! Of course I did. I hardly packed."
"I know," Holmes said, smiling. "You are my shining knight."
"I daresay," said I, and pulled him down to kiss him. "You deserve nothing less."
We fell asleep like that, tangled together beneath the voluminous bedclothes, safe and sound in Colonel Hayter’s bachelor establishment. Future trips to Hayter’s estate wouldn’t require such drastic measures in the future, and I found Holmes very happy to make a return visit. I couldn’t always promise him a local mystery, but I always did my best to keep him safe, sound, and entertained.
Recipient:
mightymadsAuthor:
mistyzeo Rating: Explicit/NC17
Characters, including any pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Warnings: None.
Summary: After the conclusion of the matter of "The Reigate Squires," Holmes and Watson find time to reconnect.
Disclaimer: I do what I want.
Given that my friend Colonel Hayter’s establishment was, as I have said, a bachelor one, it was no surprise to me that at a quarter past ten on the evening of April 26th, the door between Holmes’s bedroom and my own creaked open. I had spotted the connecting door the day before, and I was sure that the Colonel had prepared us these rooms intentionally, but I had not dared to hope to use it. The collapse of Holmes’s constitution in the wake of his case abroad had alarmed me, and I thought it best to give him space and time to rest. His ordeal in Lyons from which I (dare I say it?) had rescued him had made it clear that he had required quiet and solitude, even though it had pained me sorely to be apart from him for so long.
But the affair with the Cunninghams had certainly revived him, despite what they’d put him through, and he had eaten well that evening at supper with the Colonel and Mr Acton. Perhaps the rest of his spirits had been restored. At once my heart was pounding with anticipation, and I sat up as he crossed the room to the side of my bed.
"I say, Watson," he whispered in greeting.
"My dear fellow," said I, pulling back the blankets. He climbed nimbly in and pressed himself alongside my body. His hands and feet were rather cold, but I embraced him all the same. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, a little rough with stubble due to the hour, and then my mouth, his lips warm and soft.
"Do you suppose the household is asleep?" I murmured.
"Do you suppose it matters?" he teased, his dark eyes shining at me in the moonlight. I kissed him again, and this time he sank back into my pillows and I leaned over him, supported on my elbow, my other hand running down his long flank.
"Not particularly."
"I daresay the Colonel will be put out that we didn’t invite him," Holmes said, his hand sliding into my hair at the base of my skull, "but I’ve never been inclined to share."
I spluttered at his frankness, but he wasn’t wrong. The Colonel was well known in certain circles for his exclusive and lavish parties, most of which ended in an elaborate trade of partners. I’d confirmed before we arrived that this week was not one when he’d intended to host such a party.
Holmes laughed softly and wrapped his leg around mine. He wasn’t hard beneath his nightshirt yet, but the intention was unmistakable. He kissed me again, deeply and slowly, and whispered, "I’m sorry to have made you wait."
"Not at all," I replied, kissing his cheeks and neck and mouth once more. "You know I don’t mind waiting."
"You do take such good care of me." He laughed again. "What a treat, to have something so simple arise just when I needed it. How ever did you know?"
"I didn’t." Nor had I approved of him getting involved in the first place, but of course having had an engaging puzzle to solve would put him back into a sunny mood. He liked to feel accomplished, and we are all of us susceptible to instant gratification.
"Well, you have restored me," Holmes said, and now I felt the swell of his prick against my hip as he pushed against me once more. My own responded, the blood pounding in my veins, and I slipped my hand beneath the hem of his nightshirt to get at his bare skin. His thighs parted easily and he settled on his back, gazing up at me with a fond smile.
"What would you like?" I asked, caressing the length of his thigh and dancing my fingers towards the apex of his legs.
Holmes carded his fingers through my hair. "Your touch," he said, "perhaps your mouth, for starters."
"There’s a tin of petrolatum in my valise," I offered.
Holmes shook his head. "Not tonight, I think," said he. "I don’t have the constitution for it just yet."
I smiled and kissed his lips. "As you wish." He’d been sorely tried today; even though his sudden collapse this morning had been an affectation, the wrenched wrist and attempted strangulation had been very real.
His cock was halfway hard, bobbing upward from his groin and stiffening as I began to tough it lightly with my fingertips. He is a sensitive man, prone to overstimulation, and a slow warm-up is to his taste. I sometimes liked things a little more rough-and-tumble, which he was usually game to indulge, but tonight I wanted to take my time with him. I caressed his bollocks, holding them in my palm and rubbing them slowly against the base of his prick. He sighed against my cheek and scratched his fingernails across my scalp. His other hand lay on the pillow beside his head, fingers clenching and unclenching as I touched him.
I scratched my own fingernails in the hair at his groin, gently, touching the base of his prick almost accidentally with the V of my thumb and forefinger. He pressed his hips up into my hand, whining softly in my ear, until I took pity on him and closed my hand around the column of his cock. The sigh that came from deep in his chest was most gratifying. It had been such a long time, weeks, since I’d held him like this.
He was plucking at the back of my nightshirt, trying to pull it up over my head. "Take this off," he demanded. "I want to feel you."
It meant I had to let go of him, but we separated for the sake of nakedness, and in a moment our nightshirts were cast aside and I was pressed alongside the long, warm length of his body, my cock poking hard into his hip. This time when I took his prick in my hand, it was fully erect and dewy at the tip with moisture.
"Oh God, Watson," he said in my ear, the most beautiful words I’d ever heard, "I beg you will take your time, lest I come off early and disappoint you."
"You could never disappoint me," I vowed, but I moved slowly nonetheless. I stroked him up and down with reverence, feeling the velvety slide of his skin over the iron core of his cock, relishing the wet pulse of fluid that leaked over my fingers.
We kissed as I touched him, lips sliding together, tongues just brushing. He was making soft noises in his throat. His hips churned, rocking into the pressure of my hand even as the muscles in his stomach tensed to keep himself in control. I was so focused on him that my own arousal was an afterthought, something building and growing in the background. I knew when he finally touched me in return it would not be long at all before my own crisis.
The bed we were in was generously sized, big enough for two to sleep without touching, or three to mingle in comfort, but we were pressed together in the middle, barely taking up more space than one person would. In the dark, with Holmes breathing and moaning in my ear, his hand restless upon my back, it was as if we existed in the very centre of the universe. Nothing else mattered. Tomorrow we’d be on the train home to Baker Street, back to our lives, but tonight all that concerned me was the way his cock twitched and flexed in my hand, and the way his exhale felt upon my temple.
I was as attentive as a doctor should be with any patient, listening to the change in his breathing as his passion mounted, feeling the wetness that slicked my hand and eased its passage, inhaling the thick scent of his arousal, and tasting his eager tongue in my mouth. I paused in my stroking to stroke my thumb over the tender head of his cock and he jolted, moaning against my lips.
"Put your finger in me," he said, reaching down to grasp my wrist, "I don’t care about the jelly, just–"
I was only too happy to oblige, rearranging the blankets over my shoulders and sliding down his body to kneel between his thighs. I stuck my middle finger in my mouth, tasting the salt wetness of his pre-ejaculate, and once it felt sufficiently slicked, pressed it against his fundament. I took his cock in my other hand, relishing his groan, and bent my head as I eased my finger in.
His prick twitched and I felt the pulse of fluid when my lips touched its head. My finger sank fully into his body. I gave him a moment to adjust to the sting of penetration, tonguing his slit. I felt his hands come to rest upon my head, and then he was pushing my hair away from my eyes and whispering, "Good lord, John."
I smiled and began to move my finger, at the same time opening my mouth to take the head of his cock in. He was slick and salty against my tongue. I groaned at the way he filled my mouth. It was growing warm beneath the blankets, and my cock hung heavy between my thighs.
Holmes’s fingers moved in my hair, restless, and above me I could hear him breathing hard. I glanced up at him; his nipples were stiff peaks, and his head was stretched back. The beginnings of a ring of bruises was visible on his throat. God damn the Cunninghams. I stroked Holmes’s cock as I sucked it, my hand slick with my own saliva as it escaped the corners of my mouth.
"Slowly," he reminded me, breathless. I obeyed, slowing almost to a crawl, which made him huff in annoyance. I moved my finger inside him and the huff turned into a gasp. "There."
I knew very well what I was about, but I smiled around his prick and touched him again. The sea-salt taste of him intensified; he was beginning to squirm. As slow as I might go, he wasn’t going to last. I worked my finger in and out, relishing his soft moans. His hips rocked, pushing his prick deeper into my mouth.
I stopped to adjust my position, ignoring Holmes’s whine of disappointment, and lay on my belly between his thighs. His cock went back into my mouth, and now I could take him deep and fuck him at the same time, all the while grinding my own prick into the bed. I felt myself leaking against my belly, and couldn’t stop my hips from rolling. If Holmes wouldn’t last long, I wouldn’t be far behind.
"Wait," he said, as if reading my mind, "John, I beg-- let me finish you, I want you to--" He was scrabbling at my head, first holding me in place so he could push his cock into my mouth, and then holding himself rigid and urging me to move. He didn’t finish the thought, and I could feel him growing closer and closer to his peak.
I reached up to pinch his nipples, each one in turn, and his hand clenched tight in my hair. The muscles in his stomach tensed. My own cock surged in sympathy, my arousal tightening between my legs. He was fucking my mouth, and my mouth met the tight, soft curls of hair at the base of his cock on every stroke. My finger inside him rubbed his spot again and again, and in a moment I knew he would be at his crisis. My heart was pounding, my throat slick and my eyes wet with the effort. The volume of Holmes’s moans had increased, so much that in any other house I might worry. I didn’t often get to hear him cry out, even in our own home. It was music to my ears. I sucked harder, cherishing his vocalisation.
All at once he went taut, his voice catching, and his prick surged in my mouth. His body clamped down on my finger. I held him as he shook and spurted, swallowing what I could, wringing him dry.
When he subsided, he let out a great sigh and his grip on the sides of my head relaxed. He stroked my hair apologetically. I pulled off with a wet noise and wiped my mouth on his bare thigh. His cock twitched as I eased my finger out of him.
"Come here," he said, pulling on my shoulders so that I would rise up and cover him with my body. My cock slid in the mess I had made of the apex of his thighs. Holmes wrapped his arms and legs around me, pressing his face into my neck, and I held him as he caught his breath.
Finally he murmured, "Oh my dear fellow, how I missed you," and I sighed against his abused throat.
"And I you," I replied, pulling back to look at him. We gazed at one another in the dark, smiling, and then Holmes worked his hand between us to touch the head of my prick.
"And this," Holmes said, just as seriously, looking into my eyes. I saw his mouth twitch as he tried not to grin.
"Do shut up," I laughed, and eased myself off of him to lay at his side. He rolled with me, stretching himself along the length of my body. He gripped my cock again and leaned over me, pressing kisses to my temple and cheek.
"I did," he insisted, stroking me slowly.
"Six dozen congratulatory telegrams says you didn’t have time," I countered. I dug my fingers into the muscles of his back and tried not to fuck his fist, even though I would have been entirely welcome to do so.
He chuckled and nibbled my ear. "I shouldn’t have to remind you of my capacity to think of two things at once." He worked his fist around the head of my prick, ratcheting my pleasure up.
"No, you’re right," I gasped, "I take it back." Six weeks we’d been apart, and I felt my body would take days to adjust to having him back.
Holmes grinned and kissed me again, stroking me hard and fast now, the way I liked it. I clung to him desperately, unable to stifle my own noises of pleasure. Soon I couldn’t kiss back, and only breathed open-mouthed against his lips. Holmes was smiling. He murmured encouragement, soft praise and appreciation that served to bring about my orgasm accompanied by a flood of emotion. I found tears pricking the corners of my eyes, even as I spilled over Holmes’s fist and shook in his arms.
He worked me through the sensations, kissing my face and wringing a few more spasms of pleasure out of me with his clever hand. His body was warm and firm against mine; his voice in my ear carried me through. When I finally could open my eyes again, he was smiling down at me.
"How are you?" he murmured.
I laughed weakly, turning my face away. I was sticky and exhausted and all the excitement of the day (and week, and month) had caught up with me. Holmes cleaned me tenderly with his (or possibly my) discarded nightshirt, and then tucked himself into my side and lay his head upon my shoulder. He rested his hand upon my sternum, and I felt him playing absently with the hair upon my chest. Once my breathing had slowed, he picked his head up once more. I had collected myself by then.
"I really am feeling much better, myself," he said. "I fear I have not properly expressed my gratitude to you."
"Was this not your method of expression?"
"Only part, I suppose. You didn’t have to come for me in Lyons."
"What rot! Of course I did. I hardly packed."
"I know," Holmes said, smiling. "You are my shining knight."
"I daresay," said I, and pulled him down to kiss him. "You deserve nothing less."
We fell asleep like that, tangled together beneath the voluminous bedclothes, safe and sound in Colonel Hayter’s bachelor establishment. Future trips to Hayter’s estate wouldn’t require such drastic measures in the future, and I found Holmes very happy to make a return visit. I couldn’t always promise him a local mystery, but I always did my best to keep him safe, sound, and entertained.
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