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Queer Adventure of Sherlock Holmes

The Queer Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

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The Queer Adventures of Sherlock Holmes will be our first Sherlock Holmes collection, and will feature the work of well known fanfiction authors who for years have been expressing their adoration for this timeless character through transformative works. We are proud to bring some of their best stories to you in the form of a curated collection of queer romance offering a variety of genres. 

The nine authors featured in this collection include: 

Elyssa Warkentin (Tumblr: doctornerdington, @doctornerdingt1, AO3: doctornerdington, author of A Land So Wild

Berlynn Wohl  (Tumblr: berlynn-wohl, @berlynnwohl, AO3: berlynn_wohl, author of Oh, Earthman!and Dreams and Machines

Evadare Volney (Tumblr: vulgarweed, @vulgarweed, AO3: vulgarweed)

Morgan Wilde (@morgnwilde)

Merinda Brayfield (Tumblr: merindab , @merindab, AO3: Janto321)

Sarah Northrip (Tumblr: mamafaeriesunshine)

Shai Porter (Tumblr: iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant, @Iwantthatcoat, AO3: Iwantthatcoat)

Marta Layton (Livejournal: marta-bee, AO3: Marta)

M.A. Khoury

The talented Max Kennedy (@maxkennedy24), a longtime fanartist and lover of Sherlock Holmes, will provide gorgeous, one-of-a-kind art for the cover of this anthology. 


Read on below for a NSFW excerpt from this collection!

An Excerpt From

The Adventure of Our Secret Life

by Elyssa Warkentin

Much ink has been spilled in recent years regarding my partnership with the inimitable Sherlock Holmes, but none has truly captured the intensity and profundity of our connexion. I confess that I have had a hand in this; my memoirs of Holmes’ adventures in criminal detection have been something of an exercise in misdirection, for while mysteries and detection of crimes take centre stage in each story when it is laid out for public consumption, it is in the mystery of man’s heart that we are truly joined.

From retirement, then, I take up my pen to write the story of our secret life together: from a life of pleasure, of joyful and wanton exploration, I draw this narrative of what we ourselves saw and did and felt as we stumbled together through our thorough investigations of what was, for Holmes, the undiscovered country of human desire, and for me, the too-often unspoken one.

And here I must confess that I had early a taste for beauty of female form—but also of the male. A woman's body, a small foot, a round, plump leg and thigh, and a blushing backside have always been a distraction to me; indeed, to such an extent that I have gained a reputation amongst a small circle of worldly friends for my success with erotic sport. I have shared pleasure with—shall I confess?—countless women in my time, and then too, with a great many men, for a set of broad shoulders narrowing into a neat waist, a slight growth of stubble, a strong forearm and a bold trouser bulge stir me just the same as a pretty woman does.

Perhaps no mortal eye but mine and Holmes’ will see this history. And still, I have disguised the names and places of all the merry participants. All this is done to prevent giving pain to some, perhaps still living, for I have no malice to gratify.

It came about in this way. After my dear Mary’s death, I returned to Baker Street. I had been happily faithful to her throughout our brief marriage, for she was everything I could possibly desire in a partner, both in my bed and in my life. I would not dishonor her or myself by abandoning our marriage vows.

In the year following my return, I abstained from women and indeed from taking pleasure with men, as well. At first my grief prohibited any interest in such activities, and then, as the keenness of my despair began to dull a little, I found to my great consternation that my fondness for Holmes had—in a creeping, subtle flowering that had occurred almost unbeknownst to me—become an all-consuming passion. To my surprise, I had no interest in pursuing any other.

Whatever we were doing, whether on a case together, rambling about in St. James’s Park with his arm in my own, or simply sitting at our own hearth reading or writing, my mind ran constantly to him. I was aware, always, of his body and its proximity to mine. At times I felt I should go mad with thoughts of the many and various acts I wished to perform with him—on him. He was, and still is, an exceptionally beautiful man. He has the whitest, creamiest skin I ever saw, which contrasts superlatively with his severe, dark, sweeping hair and piercing eyes. How I longed to touch his perfect form: his broad shoulders, wiry limbs, his surprisingly voluptuous arse. My hands often ached with the pain of not caressing him.

Having never observed him taking an interest in any kind of physical pleasure, however, I felt certain he would have little desire to enact so drastic a change in our relations—even if he did share my inverted proclivities. I steeled myself to a life of agonizing temptation and unspoken, unrequited lust. And yet, I remained filled with gratitude that I should be allowed to share the days of such an exceptional man, if not his nights.

And then one night, everything changed. The world flipped over and then righted itself, and our lives were forever altered. At the time, we were not even conscious enough to shape events to our will. It came about in this way.

We were in the tiny village of Chandler’s Ford, pursuing a disgraced London banker who had taken to his heels when Holmes’ investigation threatened his latest fraud. Holmes knew him to be hidden in the village, but had been unable to locate him on the first day of our pursuit. We had taken the only room available in the area: a single above the little public house that served a ragged assortment of farmers and labourers with surprisingly excellent bitter.

I looked with trepidation at the small bed we were to share. How many nights we have slept together in the same bed while traveling on cases I cannot even estimate, but it was not few. It had become an exquisite torture for me, lying beside him and never daring to touch his body. I was always very careful to turn myself away from him, so that I would not disgrace myself inadvertently during the night. As controlled as I was during the day, I did not know how far I could trust my sleeping self. And indeed, I was right to worry.

We undressed and slipped into bed, back to back, as was our usual arrangement when forced by circumstance into such close quarters. On similar cases, Holmes often sat vigil at the window, passing the night with his pipe for company despite my protestations that he think of his health and take some rest. Tonight, however, he joined me in bed without a word and was soon breathing in the soft and regular cadence of sleep. I closed my eyes. The warmth from his back radiated into my own, and I soon followed him into dreams.

Sometime during the night, however, I must have turned. When I next awoke, it was still dark. I was lying facing Holmes’ back. My face was nuzzled into the crook of his neck, my traitorous body pressed fully against his. As I slowly regained consciousness, I realized my prick was fully hard against him, and that I was thrusting my hips, ever so slightly, slowly grinding out my pleasure. I stilled immediately and held my breath, praying that he yet slept; I greatly feared offending my dearest friend with such lewdness.

He did not move, apart from his gentle, regular breath, and he made no sound. I knew I should withdraw—should make my bed on the floor from that night on, for my own sanity if not my safety—but I was weak and in my sleep-dazed state I could not pry myself away. The smell of him! The warmth of the man, so vulnerable and so trusting against me. I believe I turned my head slightly: just enough to kiss him, once, where my mouth met the side of his throat.

At that, a shudder racked his body. To this day, I do not know if he had been asleep—but certainly, he was not now. He half rose up, and turned his long body to face me. The light of the moon illuminated the room from the half-open window, and I saw him looking down at me with an expression of unutterable surprise.

“My dear Watson!” he whispered, and then he kissed me.

How can I recollect what I thought in that maddening moment of fierce desire to have him? I grasped him round the waist, and pushed him to his back. No resistance, not a word was said. I felt more movement against me, his sighs were stronger, his hand moved restlessly over my back, our mouths were glued together. 

His lips are wet, or is it mine which are getting wet? There is a new, voluptuous sensation I’ve never experienced before; it delights me. I glue my lips tighter to his, our heaves are quicker, our sighs shorter, I feel the least bit of his tongue touching my lips. It was to me an inspiration; shooting out my tongue into his mouth—his comes out to meet it; the delight spreads electrically through our bodies.

He is down on the bed, his nightshirt up, I see the creamy flesh, corded, wiry thighs, the dark hair surrounding his cock for a second, I am on him, on him, a slight sob as my prick thrust up against his, once, twice, and we are spending in each other's embraces, mouth to mouth, belly to belly, prick to prick, almost the instant I had covered him. How strange that I should recollect this all so clearly; and yet I have no sense of time. 

Our sighs of pleasure are over, there is no stopping; but with pricks still rigid against each other, on again we go, moving against each other and dreaming of fucking in earnest. Now is the higher pleasure. The first was a maddening desire for each other, a fuck finished before it was begun. Now we are fucking with soft pleasure, and the thoughts of the greater pleasure to come, of my pleasure to spurt, of his to meet it, of entrances and depth and great sweetness. 

I recollect smoothing his hair back from his forehead as we fucked, of kissing and meeting his tongue with mine, and spending with rapture, then drifting into a waking dream, and coming to myself again, and finding him half asleep, I on the top of him, my cock still resting against his.

He lay with his beautiful head on one side, with eyes closed, with his hair falling loose. Unable to resist, I tangled my hands in his curls, buried my face in them to absorb their fragrance. It was as wonderful as I had so long imagined.

“You surprise me exceedingly,” he said, and his voice was nearly inaudible for all that we were so close. “Do you not find this unnatural? Does it not sicken your stomach and freeze your heart, Doctor?”

I swatted his arm, and bent to kiss him again. “What rot you talk. We are made to keep each other warm, we two; to keep each other safe and to give each other pleasure."

His smile, at that, was enough to swell my heart. “I do believe we are,” he answered.

More to come in The Queer Adventures of Sherlock Holmes!