Chapter 5

Holmes awoke refreshed and much more in control of his emotions. His analytical mind swung into action. Why had he panicked? What was the source of his infatuation with Jane? The latter question exercised him for some time, he still had feelings that much was true. But the urgent intensity that had thrown him so far off centre the previous day had vanished like the early morning mist. It reminded him of something, something recent, and something suppressed.

The words, his words, came to him in a blinding flash." Yes, drugs can cause a lot of side-effects, loss of voluntary muscle control - without affecting involuntary control." What if he had been drugged? But how?

The answer had to be in his proximity to Jane on the evening preceding the attack. Surely she had not drugged his food or drink? No of that much he was sure; he had for his own reasons been most attentive to her every move. So it must be some substance on her very person had influenced him.

That thought made his blood run cold; if he of all people could be so affected what of the weaker willed? The answer was all to clear. This could have serious implications. Soon Jane and her entire family would be the centre of a large gathering of the Countries most influential people!

Maybe they were planning to subversively control them. He virtually dismissed this out of hand; it was inconceivable. The Grey's were one of the Nations most respected. They would never voluntarily undertake such a venture. He frowned deeply, his expression froze for a second before turning to one of utter contempt. He muttered one hated name as if it were a curse. "Lady Daphne!" Holmes rose and dressed with a desperate urgency.

Dawn had broken minutes earlier in London than in Derbyshire, but still Hove slumbered. His head hung low. The stubble on his chin just brushing the silk shirt each time his chest rose in its relaxed cycle of breath. He grunted. His head shot up, eyes unblinking, but wide open.

"No, no Scarlet, it is sinful!"

Slowly through the fog of waking he realised he was alone; this bird had flown. His eyes focussed on the fine Norwegian table in front of him, the grain fascinated his fuddled brain; he gazed at it lovingly for long minutes.

Eventually the chill of the room brought him to his senses. He shook his head to banish the last cobwebs cluttering his mind. It was then his eyes alighted on his exposed organ and the dishevelled state of his britches. Swiftly he adjusted his dress, ignoring the repugnance of having to touch the slightly damp cloth. He raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed delicately, the scent coupled with the interested twitch in his weary but carnally inclined manhood left him in no doubt.

"The devil's work! But why?"

Seconds passed before the realisation trickled into his consciousness. When it did, he reacted with typical resolve. Ignoring his cramped body he rushed to the writing desk. The notes were gone! Crestfallen, Brighton hung his head once more; this time in shame. He had been duped! Due to his foolishness someone, presumably Madame Joan knew of Ned's suspicions. But how could those ramblings assist anyone. His head shot up. Unless, unless - they could be true!

He regarded the clock; a quarter past nine. He still had time. He grabbed Ned's original notes from the waste bin. He sat down and set about transcribing them once more. This time he concentrated, realising the true importance of his urgent work.

Bertie was already awake, he lay comfortably in Raymond's caressing arms. Gently he stroked the short golden fur that covered Raymond, he wondered at his love for this 'thing', for he was at a loss for what to call his partner. Raymond was clearly more animal than human but he was too close to human to be defined as any animal. His touch when it came was certain and direct in its nature, pure in its single purpose; pleasure. Bertie resisted the paw-like fondling of his manhood.

"No Raymond, I am too tired. You have drained me."

The effect was immediate, like a scolded puppy Raymond yapped his protest softly. But then he did something unexpected, he moved sliding his form alongside Bertie's. This brought the head of his shaft between the young squire's buttocks. The process smeared liberal quantities of liquid desire dangerously close to Bertie's passage. The lord tensed his body immediately, attempting to repel such a rude intrusion. He felt no desire to consummate their love in this way.

Raymond sensed this intuitively and withdrew. However he slithed his furry form down Bertie's body. His long tongue then extended and lapped warmly at the Lords thighs. Bertie sighed and relaxed. Encouraged the tongue flickered higher washing the hanging sacks of flesh that nestled between muscular twitching thighs.

Lord Grey bucked and pressed down against the warmth of Raymond's breath. When the furry paw writhed its way to Bertie's stalk this time it found it firm and upstanding. Raymond let out a low howl. An instant later he shifted and resumed his earlier position. His erection found and stretched the resistant muscle.

"No, Raymond I don't..."

Bertie stopped talking abruptly as Raymond's erection forced its entry. He drew in his breath and to his own surprise pushed back impaling himself more securely on Raymond's shaft. He groaned with pleasure and genuine shock; he could have never have anticipated the feeling of being taken. Raymond was a part of him, he possessed him - in the most fundamental way. As the pounding rhythm established itself, Bertie fell into a world of desire previously unimaginable. He found the joy of giving; to him an unknown.

As Bertie felt his own crisis approaching he became aware of a deep growl rumbling in Raymond's heaving chest. They spent together as Raymond's thighs slapped into Bertie's buttocks with one final, savage, thrust.

As the alien seed filled Bertie's body he sensed a change. For eternity something of Raymond was within him; joined with him inseparably. He now had the power! Burgabiter had surely never intended this. What would he do with it? Bertie grinned lasciviously; the possibilities were endless.

Brighton swallowed hard and then rapped the knocker firmly on to the door of 221B Baker Street. Presently the door was opened.

"Hove! My dear chap. It seems an age since we met."

"Indeed it does Watson, how are you?"

"In fine fettle as you would suspect, I wish I could say as much for Holmes."

"Sherlock is ill? Do I call at a bad time?" Hove asked.

"Ill? No he just imbibes too much of that laudanum for my liking. It makes him maudlin and disagreeable."

"Ah, it is much the same with Ned and the accursed pipe. If only I could understand it."

Watson frowned sympathetically, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think only the addict can understand this fascination. Still enough of this; we shall become as depressed as them. Do come in my dear chap."

Hove followed Watson through the hallway and towards the sound of a frantic violinist. As soon as the study door opened the music ceased.

Holmes lay down his instrument and turned to face Brighton.

"Why yes. I have quite forgotten. What do you have for me Hove?"

Watson made a move to leave the room.

"No Watson stay. We may have need of your medical opinion on this." Said Holmes.

Watson smiled briefly and then crossed the room to take a seat beside Hove. Without any more ado Brighton explained the situation and handed the notes to Sherlock.

Long silent minutes passed as the detective examined the papers in excruciating detail. Finally he spoke. "Well I do not understand it..."