Sheridan Holmes Boy Detective

Sheridan Holmes - Boy Detective

a collection of short stories by plantagenet

Disclaimer: My humblest apologies to A.C.Doyle for adapting his great literary creation, but I was sorely tempted. Like my other British literary hero (Wilde) I can resist anything except temptation. These are fictional tales set in another time and place. If there is any resemblance detected between them and some other fictional characters, well, that's fiction, isn't it. If you get the chance, please send a little financial support to that great bastion of erotic fiction, the Nifty Archive. Otherwise I may have to set the Hound upon you.

Sheridan Holmes, Boy Detective

I have just completed the most wondrous year at school, that I shall simply burst if I do not set down in writing all that transpired before it leaves my memory and is lost forever. So now I offer you, without any curtailment of facts which might offend the sensitive, the story of the year gone past, that most momentous of years.

Perhaps I should begin by introducing myself: my name is Jonathan Watson, Jonny to my intimates. My parents, whom I love dearly, are both doctors. They work in poor countries all around the world, freely giving medicines and surgery to those ravaged by war and pestilence, in an organisation called Medecin Sans Frontiere. I've been to several countries with them, indeed, up until my fifth birthday I travelled with them constantly. Colombia, Kenya, Mali, Romania, Syria, Bosnia, all contributed stamps to my passport before I could read. It was an incident in Equatorial Guinea, where father's house servant was diagnosed with ebola, that convinced my parents that while it was reasonable for them to risk their health and indeed their lives on a daily basis, the places where they were most needed were not suitable in which to raise a child, and as a result I have been a boarding pupil at Diogenes Hall since that time, these last five years.

Diogenes Hall is a rather exclusive private school situated on the outskirts of London. It caters mainly to boarders, but a few day-students are admitted. Some boarders (such as myself) are year-round, while others are weekly, going back to their families on Friday evening and returning to school on Sunday afternoon. The headmaster, Mr Lestrade, MA Hons (Oxon), has some rather progressive ideas about education, which led my parents to enrol me at this place, rather than at Father's own school of Winchester. I am most glad that he did.

When I commenced the sixth grade on the afternoon of the first Sunday in September, I had no idea of the immensity of the year that was to ensue. As a year-round boarder, I was entitled to a room of my own. Weekly boarders tended to share two or four to a room, depending on their circumstances and the sizes of the available rooms. There were no "dormitories", as such, the likes of which one might find in less-endowed schools: Diogenes Hall was as well-off as most of its pupils' families.

The first task a boy must complete upon returning to school for a new academic year is to consult the noticeboard, where one may see details of new teaching appointments, the names of sudents who will not be returning, items of interest for members of the Chess Club, and other clubs, and so on. The Board also showed all boarding room assigments. I only ever gave this section cursory attention, as my status was always the same: "J Watson, room B12, solo." I had grown quite fond of my room - it had been my home for five years now. Imagine my surprise when I saw that I was to be paired with another boy! The notice stated without fanfare: "J Watson & S Holmes, room B12".

My initial feelings were of indignation, betrayal and profound shock! Who was this S Holmes fellow? How did he inveigle his way into my room? What effect would his presence have on my, ah, noctural activities? Would this chap want his own bed? How would it fit in the room? I already have my own double bed in there, and what with my desk and wardrobe there was precious little space remaining to walk from the bed to the ensuite bathroom! In any case, what fool of a parent would name their son S Holmes, in some pathetic imitation of the Great Detective himself? Surely a more monumental catastrophe could not be countenanced in the seven hundred and nineteen year history of Diogenes Hall - unless Mr Lestrade should give way to popular pressure and allow the enrolment of (ewww) girls!

I was determined to have it out with this...this...usurper, this ill-named cad! He will find me a force to be reckoned with! I strode purposefully to Baskerville Wing, where all the sixth-grade boarders' rooms were located, fuming under my breath. When I arrived at B12, I threw the door open and found to my horror that the cheeky brat was lying on my bed! On my side of the bed to boot!

"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, in the same voice that my Father once used when confronting thirty members of Boko Haram in a Nigerian bush village who were intent upon forcing their base urges upon some young schoolgirls.

The boy on the bed smiled at me, and gracefully slid his legs off the bed (my bed!) and stood before me. "My dear fellow!" he cried, as though I was Livingstone to his Stanley. "How good to meet you! You must be Watson! I take it that the 'J' stands for...no, don't tell me...not James, too regal...Jeremiah? No, too biblical...John seems unlikely, as it is your father's name...I have it! You are Jonathan! May I introduce myself? I am Holmes, Sheridan Holmes. Mr Lestrade assured my grandfather Sherlock that this school is among the finest in England, and that he would find the ideal pupil with whom to share my first year of public school. Therefore, I deduce that must be you! Well met, my dear chap!"

I was momentarily bereft of the ability to speak coherently! "Did you...did you give your grandfather's name as... Sherlock? Not - not THE Sherlock, surely? The great detective? It cannot be! He is one of England's most brilliant men! And unless I am gravely mistaken, he is unmarried and childless!" I must confess that I ran off at the mouth somewhat - it was the shock. I had intended to give this fellow a proper seeing-off, and now here he is, brazenly claiming a familial connnection to one of my greatest literary heroes.

"You are correct, Watson. Difficult though it may be to believe - indeed, I find it challenging to believe myself, at times - I am the grandson and only living descendant of the world's greatest consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. I have been schooled privately by him since my birth, and now I am enrolled by him at the school of his old and dear friend Mr Lestrade. Unfortunately, grandfather is overseas presently, for an extended period of time, and in order to allow my education to continue uninterrupted, he has placed me at Diogenes Hall as a weekly boarding student. He also indicated to me that I should take this opportunity to study my fellow man, or boy, as I have never been in a school of any kind before."

Flabbergasted, I sat on the edge of my bed. "But...but...how does...I mean, how did...er...how are you..." My wits had not regathered as yet, and this...quite handsome boy, and the revelation of his identity, had quite overwhelmed me. He stepped over to the door and closed it softly, then returned and sat on the bed alongside me.

"At the risk of sounding pretentious, dear fellow, I will tell you all. I can see straightway that you are a boy who respects confidences, much as your parents do in their profession, so I will be candid," he offered.

"How...how did you...?" I sputtered.

Sheridan giggled. "It is obvious, my dear chap. Grandfather trained me in the art of observation, and the science of deduction, so all I needed to do on my arrival in your - or hopefully, our - room, was to observe. I saw a framed photo on your desk of two people in medical scrubs with an obvious likeness to you; they must be your parents - why else would you have their photo?. The uncivilised locale of the photo also explains why you are boarding here rather than living with them. You miss them, but you prefer to be comfortable and safe."

"True, all true," I replied. "But tell me, how does the great man have a grandson of whom nobody has heard?"

"To answer that, my dear Watson, I must digress, but only briefly. When my grandfather was more active in the world of crime-solving, until some twelve tears ago, he enlisted the assistance of a sizeable number of street urchins as his 'eyes and ears', keeping grandfather appraised of the movements and contacts of many underworld figures, thus helping him to solve innumerable heinous crimes. These urchins, all boys, aged roughly from eight to fourteen, were runaways or orphans, many of them earning a living by picking pockets and other forms of petty thievery. Grandfather helped them in their domestic circumstances whenever they permitted him to do so, but they were all fiercely independent."

"One such boy, an orphan known to his fellows only as 'Tosser', was asked by grandfather to make the acquaintance of a prostitute named Busty L'Amour. She was thought to be associated with a notorious villain whom grandfather was requested to track down. Tosser wormed his way into this woman's affections, and into her bed. Busty indulged him whenever she was not entertaining her paying clients. Apparently, Tosser confided to Busty that he had not yet reached sufficient age to produce semen when he reached his sexual climax, and so, ever a trusting soul, Busty did not use any birth control when she lay with Tosser."

"But, as often happens, nature finds a way, and Busty fell pregnant. She immediately declared that Tosser was the father, and had to take responsibility. The baby was born, but the villain found out about it and did for Busty - her body was never found. Tosser, meanwhile, was himself no great physical specimen to begin with, and the added burden of fatherhood sent the 12 year old street lad to an early grave. As he lay dying, the newly-born baby by his side, he called for Sherlock. Loyal to his "Bow Street Irregulars", as he called these urchins, grandfather came to him, and though unable to reverse the effects of Tosser's condition, he assured the lad that his baby would be cared for."

"And so," I guessed, "You were that baby, I take it? Sherlock...adopted you?"

"I? Not at all! He adopted Tosser! While the boy lay dying in a filthy squat! Mr Lestrade helped with the paperwork. Grandfather had been of immense service to Mr Lestrade over the years, so it was a chance for the policeman to square the ledger. Once Tosser realised that his infant son now had a proper home, he gave up the struggle, and expired. So I am legally the grandson of Sherlock Holmes, and I am at your service, my dear fellow".

I sat for a few moments, pondering what my new companion had said. Imagine starting school at age 12! Imagine learning all about...well, everything...at the feet of the great detective! I was bursting with curiosity! It was widely known that one of the great man's most striking abilities was his power of deduction, the ability to draw conclusions from observation of the things around him that others overlook. I had to know if Sheridan had learned this from his grandfather.

"Er, Sheridan...um...remember what you did earlier, when you figured out my name? Can you...er...tell me what you see when you look at me? I mean, I'm not vain or anything, but I would like to know what other people see when they see me, you know? If you can, I mean."

The boy sitting next ot me on the bed smiled. "Are you sure that's what you want, old chap? Grandfather did teach me the science of observation of people and places, but he cautioned me that most people reacted...strangely, sometimes, in that they did not always enjoy having their carefully built-up illusions about themselves shattered."

"I'm sure," I answered, recklessly. "Go ahead."

"Very well," he replied, rising from the bed and striding around our small room, looking here and there, making the occasional 'hmm', and tapping the tip of his nose with his index finger. "Very well," he eventually repeated. "Your name is Jonathan Watson, age 11, soon to be 12, of medical parents, as I have previously established. You are still some months shy of the commencement of puberty, and are yet to experience ejaculation. Your penis is circumcised, and of modest proportions."

"I say!" I interrupted indignantly.

"You enjoy the nightly stimulation of your anus by means of the insertion into it of the middle finger of your right hand, while you manipulate your erection with the thumb and index finger of your left hand. You would like to engage in sexual activities with your fellow pupils, but you dare not, for fear of exposure and the consequent ostracism and the shame brought upon your parents. Socially, you prefer the company of your own gender, and have a dim view of girls, whom you disdain. You fear that you are homosexual, but you are determined to suppress that fact, even to the extent of ultimately entering a sham marriage with some female to preserve your idea of abiding by societal norms. How am I doing?"

I sat on the bed, my jaw dropped, aghast. How could this fellow, this...gorgeous boy, know me so intimately? "How...how...?" was all I could manage.

"Not too difficult, old chap," Holmes replied, seemingly unbothered to be sharing a room with an abomination of nature such as myself. "The tissues in your bedside waste bin have a faint aroma of rectal juices. The poster inside the door of your wardrobe of Caravaggio's "Love Victorious" was a bit of a giveaway, as is the small amount of dirt under the fingernail of your right middle finger. As for the rest, well mostly it was the way you look at me, like a starving rabbit at a leaf of lettuce". He sat back down on the bed next to me.

"And...you still...want to be my room companion? After...well, after what you now know of me?" I stammered, almost too afraid to hear the answer.

"My dear fellow, if I learned anything from my grandfather, it is that genuine friendship, especially between boys or men, far transcends any trivial considerations of sexual preference or bedtime habits. Why, I could not look the old fellow in the face ever again if he discovered that I shunned a boy's company simply because that boy thought he might be gay! I could care less if you said you were a Nottingham Forest supporter!"

"But...but I am a Forest supporter, " I spluttered.

"And I admire you for it, old boy. I hope we can still be friends, in spite of your dreadful taste in football teams!" With that, Holmes began to undress. He walked around to the other side of the bed as he did so, unbuttoning and removing his shirt. His chest was a typical flat boyish chest, graced with small pale nipples and a flat navel. My father once told me that good obstetricians strive for the flat navel, as a signature of a successful delivery. I feared at this point that Sheridan would move to the en-suite before continuing, but he confounded my expectation by unbuttoning his short trousers and letting them fall to the floor. He pulled his underdrawers down likewise, and stepped out of them, naked. He withdrew a towel from his luggage and draped it over his shoulders.

"I say, Watson, there are no silly rules here about when showers may be taken, I trust? I'm gasping for a wash!" As he spoke, his slim penis rose and lengthened, my jaw dropping further with every pump of it as it reached its full size of three inches, about the same as my own 'modestly proportioned' weapon.

"You're...you're...beautiful!" I gasped, unable to restrain my vile urges. He smiled, and walked back around the bed to stand in front of me.

"You will find that I am a loyal friend, and discreet, dear fellow," he murmured, standing no more than a few inches in front of where I sat on the side of the bed (our bed!). Holmes already knew of my proclivities, and seemed untroubled by them. I leaned forward and opened my mouth, enclosing the head of his member as I did so. Words fail miserably to describe the sublime sensations that I felt upon sucking on Sheridan's stiff penis, sensations that I have longed to feel with so many boys over the past few years but never dared. The sheer thrill of it all almost had me swooning! The feel of his smooth scrotum as it bounced repeatedly against my chin...the taste of his glans upon my tongue as I swirled it around and around his knobhead...the subtle smell of his bald mons as my nose bumped into it each time I pushed my head forwards...the muscular yet soft cheeks of his bottom which I clutched as I sucked and licked Sheridan's cock.

"Steady on, old boy, you're doing wonderfully well, don't bring me off too quickly," Sheridan urged, gently taking hold of my ears to slow down the speed of my bobbing head. "Aah, yes; for someone who has had no practice whatsoever, you've quite the technique, old boy - you're a natural at this. Now, let me hold your head still whilst I gallop to the finish line." With that, Sheridan grabbed a fistful of my longish hair in each hand and began pumping his hips strongly and rhythmically, engendering in me the most marvellous feelings of submission, of complete involvement in the moment of his climax, as he moaned that he had orgasmed. I tasted no emission, but was much contented.

"Oh, well done, old chap, that was magnificent," he praised me as he withdrew his still hard cock. I smiled my gratitude at his words, completely in his thrall. It was at that precise moment, I think, that I realised that I was in love. What Sheridan was to say next only confirmed that sentiment. "I hope that tonight, when we are in this lovely bed together, that I can return the favour and taste your cock, Watson. You won't be needing to use your finger, either."

Sheridan departed for the en-suite, allowing me to admire his finely chiselled bottom. Within moments I heard the shower running, but above the sound of water I discerned a most enchanting treble melody, Schubert's Der Musensohn, if I am not mistaken. I lay back on my bed, hoping that Sheridan would not dress inside the en-suite, but come back into the room (our room!) naked. He did not disappoint me.

"I say, old boy, when do they ring the chow bell arond here?" Sheridan asked as he towelled his straight black hair vigorously. He had already wiped off his damnably beautiful body inside the bathroom, and was now standing but a few feet away, erect again, gloriously erect, oh, most adorably erect! He threw the towel over the back of my study chair and returned to his luggage, from which he withdrew a small toiletry set. Holmes then set about combing his hair, which had a sheen of the deepest black, so black that it almost looked blue. He surprised me by withdrawing a pair of wire-frame spectacles, in the John Lennon style, and fitting them on his face. "People underestimate you when you wear glasses," he explained. "That can sometimes be useful. Er, dinner?"

"Oh!", I replied, shocked back into speech. "The dinner gong sounds at 6pm, and we musn't be late, or we receive two slaps on the bare bottom from the house prefect."

"So, no punishment, then?" Sheridan grinned. It was at that moment, I think, yes, that was the precise moment I realised that I was in for a most extraordinary year. I helped Sheridan unpack his clothes and belongings, letting him use half of my wardrobe. Most boys would have sporting equipment of some sort in their luggage, according to the season (cricket, swimming, athletics or rugger), but the only non-clothing items Sheridan brought to school were a small chemistry set and a musical instrument, the likes of which I had never seen before, but which he explained was a lute.

"Grandfather plays the violin, and deemed that the sound of one tortured cat in the house was sufficient. He taught me the fundamentals of this instrument, which he brought back with him after a visit to the Continent," Holmes explained as he tuned the awkward-looking object. Without warning, he launched into a barely-suppressed frenzy of plucking and fingering, generating a most profoundly moving sound that I had only previously associated with the harp. It was a short piece, ony six or seven minutes, but while he played I was transported to a world beyond Diogenes Hall, and the only sadness in his music was the knowledge that I must inevitably return.

"Simply beautiful, dear fellow," I remarked when he had done, slyly wiping a tear from my eye. " I cannot quite place it - from the Italian baroque perhaps?"

Holmes laughed, a sweet high-pitched giggle. "You flatter me, dear boy - it is, I confess, one of my own. I rather vainly titled it 'Adagio for a beautiful boy'. Perhaps I can dedicate it ...to you?"

"Oh, Holmes," I cried out, throwing myself into his welcoming arms. This tme I did cry, quite freely, blubbering all over his shoulder as he hugged me to himself. "I am in no wise beautiful, but thank you for saying it," I sobbed.

"Nonsense, dear chap. And tonight, in this very bed, I shall prove it. But I must eat soon, or perish!" I laughed as he released me and we made our way to the junior refectory after Holmes dressed. Holmes expressed the desire that I not reveal his family connection, not yet at any rate, so to the few boys that showed an interest I introduced him simply as Sheridan. I believe most of them took this to be his family name, which suited his purpose.

There is no prep on the first evening of term, naturally, as classes had not yet begun, so we departed after dinner to our room. I showed Holmes my few treasures, mostly things my parents had sent me from their travels, and he showed me some of the uses of his chemistry set. Initially I was somewhat fearful that he would cause an explosion, or a terrible stink, either of which would have us in awful trouble with the House prefect. In no time it was Lights Out, so we undressed in preparation for bedtime, Holmes stripping off all his clothing, me watching him to ensure I removed a similar amount. I soon discovered that his preferred sleeping attire was his birthday suit, and I confess I was somewhat abashed.

"Holmes, I...I have never..." I stammered, clinging to the last of my clothes, underdrawers as it happens.

"Come now, dear boy, this is no time for foolish modesty.," Holmes gently reprimanded me. "I have already declared that you are beautiful, and I am never mistaken. Well, hardly ever. Let me take those underwear from you, if it makes it easier. I shuffled forward to where Holmes sat on the side of the bed and let go of the waistband. "And now for the unveiling," he declared, pulling my drawers down. I felt ashamed, I was already erect. I must have seemed like a wanton tart to him, eager to pollute myself with another boy, but his words were only those of reassurance and admiration!

"Oh, my dear Watson, such a shame to have to keep this glorious body hidden from view! I am sure the Caravaggio in the wardrobe must die with envy each day that he sees you in your natural state! You are a little thicker around the waist and thighs than I, too many cakes I deduce, but that only lends your wonderful body a Rubensesque roundness that may draw mighty Zeus himself, should I expose it for too long. Come, under the sheets, lest He see you and forsake Olympus itself to come capture your heart, even as you have captured mine!"

I was profoundly moved by Holmes' words, joining him under the bedclothes willingly. That night Sheridan became my first lover, showing me the many ways that a boy can love another boy. He kissed his way down my body, from my throat to my navel, before toying with my stiff penis with his tongue. When I could stand it no more he swallowed my organ whole, balls as well, giving me my first climax (that is, the first one engendered by another person).

My body was his to use. I submitted to each of his successive passions without reservation or regret. Holmes threw back the bedclothes and knelt on his haunches, opening my thighs and pulling me back towards himself. I recall whimpering as he reached beneath my bottom and lifted my hips up so that his erection came into contact with my nether hole. I moaned as he slipped his organ inside me. He then crouched forward and began pumping, making the bed shake, and engendering in me the most pleasurable pain. He kissed my mouth (I think to stop me from making so much noise!) as he rode my body to a blissful state. Briefly sated, he rested, but later in the night he took me again, from behind as I lay with my back to his front. He fondled my penis as he did so, so adroitly that we climaxed within seconds of each other.

Morning was announced by the sun's rays pouring into the room as Holmes threw back the heavy curtains with a flourish. "Arise, Sir Sleepyhead," he declared, standing nude and erect by the casement. "A new day awaits. There is so much of this unfamiliar territory that I would explore, and you shall be my accomplice, my Sancho Panza, my..."

"Your Watson," I completed his thought.

"Yes, of course, I forgot that you were familiar with grandfather's many published exploits, and thus also with his friend and chronicler Doctor Watson. My word, what an amazing coincidence! Come, Watson!" Feeling no shame at my naked and turgid condition, I drew back the bedclothes and made for the shower, only to be surprised by Holmes and his apparent intention to join me. "A vigorous scrub will do us both good, old boy," he explained, and then surprised me again by applying the loofah to all parts of my body, in a most gratifying fashion. I confess, when I woke I had been a little concerned that the previous night's bed-time activities were a once-only affair, and that he might tire of me, but Holmes made it most evident that his interest in stimulating my body was not to be restricted to our first night together, but to continue indefinitely. I was most happy.

There were so many adventures that the two of us participated in over the course of the next ten months, I can scarce recall all but the most noteworthy of them. But as I declared in my introduction, it is my intention to make a record of the year, and this I shall do. It may be helpful, for the sake of clarity, to present the doings of Sheridan Holmes, Boy Detective (and his loyal associate Jonny Watson), as a series of cases, much as my medical namesake did with the great Sherlock. For that reason, I present to you the very first major case upon which we were engaged, which I have entitled "The Case of the Fearful Fag".

1. The Fearful Fag.

The school year was barely a fortnight old, and Holmes had solved but a few trivial mysteries (a missing salt cellar from the head Table, a dreadful smell in the Fifth Year bathroom, you can imagine the sort of thing - his prodigious talents were barely troubled) when he received a summons from Mr Lestrade, the Headmaster.

The prefect of Baskerville Wing, a gangly fellow with the unfortunate name of Woodcock, rapped on our door at the ungodly hour of quarter past seven, while we were yet abed, Holmes having decided to give me an early rogering from behind to start the day. When I heard the knock at the door, my initial fear was that my moans of delight had disturbed our fellow Baskervillains, but as I discovered when I leapt from the bed and threw on a bathrobe, it was a request from the Head for Holmes to call upon him at his earliest convenience.

"Holmes!" Woodcock called loudly when I unlocked and opened the door, "Head's study! Now!"

At first I was most concerned that the carnal delights in which Holmes and I had indulged these past fourteen days and nights had been uncovered, and we were about to be unceremoniously cashiered. Holmes laughed off my fears, saying that we need have no concerns, as we had been discreet whenever in public and assiduous in our studies. "Come, Watson, the game's afoot," he declared, when I showed some reluctance in accompanying him to the Head's study, as Woodcock had named only one of us.

In spite of my reservations, I strode with Holmes as we took a lively clip to the Head's rooms, located in the main buildings of the school. His outer office was unattended, as it was still early in the morning by Diogenes standards, and Mr Lestrade stood at his open door, awaiting us. When the Head raised an eyebrow at my attendance with Holmes, he quickly assured the Head that we shared all confidences and that I was the soul of discretion.

"Very well," the man replied, obviously unhappy at being crossed by a sixth-grade boy, regardless of reputation. "Enter," he commanded, ushering us within his rooms. We accepted his invitation, Holmes leading the way.

"What I am about to tell you must not be spoken of outside these walls," Mr Lestrade began. "The fact is, Sheridan, I am at my wits' end. As your grandfather is out of the country, and I am in dire need of the services of...well, a fellow of his abilities, I must turn to you in my hour of need."

"I am at your service, Sir," Holmes graciously replied.

The Head rose from his chair and began to pace around his study. "One of the third-formers has disappeared," he stated baldly. "Hatherley by name. He was last seen at lunchtime yesterday. School policy dictates that any such disappearance, if not resolved within twenty-four hours, must be reported to the Police. And I would very much prefer not to have my former Scotland Yard colleagues clomping their oversized boots all over my School!" This last remark was delivered with some vehemence, but Holmes was unfazed.

"Did he merely run away, Sir? Back to his home, perhaps?" Holmes asked.

"None of the gate, window or fence alarms has been tripped. And I have received no phone call from Colonel nor Lady Hatherley to that effect," the headmaster replied.

"Hmm..." Holmes mused, tapping the end of his nose. "Has he had a falling out with a fellow student, and gone to ground somewhere within the school?"

"Not according to the head fag. Hatherley was well-liked. None of his friends can offer any evidence of emotional disturbance," the Head answered.

"Hatherley is a school fag, then, Sir?" Holmes seized on the Head's admission.

"Yes - the boy is a third-former, after all, with no sporting pretensions."

"Then that is where I shall start - with your permission, Sir. Come, Watson!"

"You shall have carte blanche, Sheridan. Here, this may be useful," the Head added, giving Holmes a sheet of paper. "And remember, I only have four and a half hours remaining before I have to inform the proper authorities."

Holmes scanned the paper as we hurried to Grimesby House, where the fag common room was located. "Most satisfactory!" he muttered, passing the paper to me. It was on the Head's own stationery, giving the bearer full authority to go wherever in the School he wished, to question whomever he wished, students and staff alike, and to take into his possession any item he deemed necessary to pursue his enquiries. Carte blanche indeed!

We reached the door of the fag common room to find it locked. Holmes knocked. A voice within answered "Who is it?"

"I wish to speak with you on a matter of some importance," Holmes replied.

"If you're not a sixth-former, sod off!" the same voice replied.

Holmes paused. "I believe we must resort to a little subterfuge, Watson. Follow my lead." Whispering this, he pointed to the half-height wall which opened out onto the School Quadrangle, indicating with his finger that I should station myself there. Flattening himself against the wall next to the fag common room door, he spoke in a loud voice: "I say, Watson, isn't that the Captain of the school rugger team running naked across the Quad?"

I caught on immediately and responded "Why, yes, I think it is - and with the whole forward pack chasing after him - and they're naked also!" A rattling sound from within signified a key in the lock, and the door flew open. A third former, wearing only a white towel around his narrow waist burst forth and, seeing me leaning over the wall, started over to the wall to see what I had described. Before he reached me, Holmes had whipped his towel off him, leaving him as bare as the day of his birth. The shock of being disrobed out of doors stunned the lad, leaving Holmes and I the opportunity to rush through the doorway, which we closed after ourselves.

The naked fag slapped his hand on the door. calling out frantically. "I say, chaps, let me in, would you? It's beastly cold out here!"

"Will you pay attention to our request this time?" Holmes asked genially through the heavy door.

"On my honour," the distraught teen vowed. That was good enough for Holmes, who unlocked the door to admit the now shivering youth back into the warmth of the fag common room. Holmes returned the fag's towel, which he draped over his shoulders. This gave me the opportunity to inspect his physique, in particular, his generative equipment. His uncut penis was slim, some two-and-a half inches in length, surmounted by a small bush of black hairs, two grape sized-balls swinging in a loose scrotum below. While I was admiring his crotch, Holmes was showing him the Head's letter, which he read quickly.

"Well, why didn't you say so!" the fag declared obsequiously when he finished reading. "We get a lot of pranksters knocking on our door, so we must be on guard - only fags and seniors are allowed in here. And of course, those who bear introductions from the Head! What can I do to help you boys?"

Holmes nodded. "We understand that one of your colleagues is missing...Hatherley?" Holmes began.

"Why yes, he is! Are you looking for him? Because I can assure you, he isn't here. We turned the fag wing upside down last evening, when we realised he had gone missing. Every bedroom was closely examined, under beds, inside wardrobes, behind cupboards, ensuites, the lot. Every space capable of holding a third-former of Hatherley's size was opened and checked, then checked again. Nothing. I really can't see what else can be done..."

Holmes tapped his nose with his finger. "And what of Hatherley's state of mind? As a fag, I assume he was available to be called upon by any sixth-former who needed his services?"

"Quite," the fag replied. "It is my job to co-ordinate the smooth operation of the fag common room so that sixth-formers who need a fag are catered for at any time."

"I see," replied Holmes. "And what might a fag be required by a sixth former to do?"

"Oh, just the usual, old boy. Some light cleaning, making toast, brewing a nice cup of tea, turning down the bedcovers of an evening, sucking dick, perhaps a spot of wanking, possibly getting fucked in the bum if the fag is good looking, you know the sort of thing, I expect," replied the fag, whose penis began to lengthen as he recited the typical tasks of his colleagues.

"And did Hatherley have such duties yesterday? Do you keep a schedule of any kind, so that a fag will know which sixth-former to...er, attend to? Or do the Seniors simply come to the door and crook a finger at the first available boy?"

"Well of course there's a schedule, how else will a fag know where he is required?" the teen answered, beginning to sound a little annoyed.

"So, there is a schedule...and may I ask where the schedule for yesterday is now? Perhaps somewhere on that desk littered with papers over near the fireplace?" Holmes pursued.

"It...well...I suppose so!" the teen replied, quite testily. "Now look here, you...you...boy! Letter or no letter, I simply can not stand around here all day bandying words with an inquisitive sixth-grader, it simply won't do!" The fellow was getting close to losing his rag, which would have been counter-productive to our task. Holmes had, of course, seen where my line of sight was fixed, and simply nodded in my direction. I fell to my knees and took the fag's now-rigid phallus in my mouth and began to work upon it with lips and tongue, while Holmes stepped over to the desk and ruffled through the papers, searching for the aforementioned schedule.

My nose was buried in the third-former's scant bush as he climaxed in my mouth at the very moment that Holmes exclamed "I have it!", brandishing a piece of paper over his head like a juvenile Chamberlain. "Oh, well done Watson, good show!" My first ever taste of spooge was most welcome, as was Holmes' approval of my actions. "Look here, Watson, it says yesterday's date, Hatherley's name, and alongside it, 'J Moriarty'." Turning to the fag, Holmes said. "Who is this fellow?"

"Jumbo Moriarty? Just one of the seniors. I think he was the one who first noticed Hatherley was missing. Or at least it was Jumbo that alerted me to Hatherley's non-attendance at his study yesterday evening. Most put out, he was, as I recall."

Holmes thanked the fag for his assistance and helped me up off my knees. As I wiped the last of the fag's spooge from my lips and headed for the door, Holmes turned back to ask a final question. The fag was now in a much more relaxed mood, and more disposed to reply.

"This sixth-former's nickname - Jumbo - is he a devotee of jet aeroplanes, perhaps?" Holmes asked.

The teen chuckled. "Jumbo? Jet planes? No, no, dear fellow. He got that name because his cock compares favourably to an elephant's trunk. It is somewhat formidable when soft - and simply stupendous when stiff!" We departed the fag common room, Holmes leading the way, walking along the corridors until we gained the Quad. No naked seniors, only a few wooden seats. We sat down to discuss our progress. I thought we had made very little, but Holmes saw it differently.

"Well, Watson, what did you make of that encounter?" he asked as we sat ourselves down on the nearest seat.

"Er, quite...ah...interesting, Holmes. His pubic hair tickled my nose rather, and his spooge had an unexpectedly bland taste, but it was certainly an invigorating experience," I replied.

"No, no, dear boy. I meant about this Jumbo Moriarty fellow. Have you heard of him?"

"Oh, yes, of course, the senior. Yes, I have heard of him, I think everyone at Diogenes has. He's quite the athlete, good all-round scholar, more than useful at outside-centre in rugger, a wiz at oratory and quite a decent tenor by all accounts...I must say, I never knew the significance of his nickname before. Do you think his, er, endowment has any bearing on the case?"

"I'm sure of it, dear boy. Now tell me, apart from Miss McCluskey in the library, and Miss Jenkinson the music teacher, are there any females on the premises?"

"Females? You mean...women? Girls?" I shuddered with fear at the thought that Holmes might be commencing a preference for the fairer sex, over me. "Well, the second-former boarders run the laundry, so there is no need for washer-women, and everyone does his own room-cleaning, except the sixth-formers, who use fags to clean for them, so I suppose that the only females at Diogenes Hall would be the kitchen wenches," I replied.

Holmes looked shocked. "Do you actually call them 'wenches'?"

"Of course. Everybody does. There are about four or five of them, depending on the time of day. Mr Mycroft, the cook, has a jolly old time ordering them about, if the sounds from the kitchen are anything to go by. Why are you interested in them?"

Holmes tapped his nose. "If Hatherley is nowhere to be found, and has not exited the School, then the only possibility remaining, however unlikely, is that he is no longer Hatherley, that is to say, no longer a boy, " Holmes expounded, leaving me still in the dark.

"No longer a...what?" I spluttered.

"No time to explain, dear fellow. Up, there is precious little time remaining; come, we must inspect the kitchen!" he declared, and he raced away towards the refectory, with myself struggling to keep up behind him. When we arrived at the kitchen door, it was still an hour before lunch (and an hour before the expiry of the Head's deadline). Holmes knocked, and when Mycroft answered, he showed him the Head's letter. The cook invited us in, satisfied that it was not some foolish prank to gain access to food before the appointed time.

"Mr Mycroft, would you be so kind as to summon your, er, wenches for me please?" Holmes asked graciously. He had a way of speaking that made people want to co-operate with him.

"As you wish, young master," the man answered. He clapped his hands twice, and a flurry of activity ensued, with pinafores and cloth caps and petticoats swishing everywhere as the five girls, all of teen age, entered the part of the kitchen where we waited for them. Mycroft waved his hand at the girls, who immediately lined up as if for inspection, standing at attention with hands primly clasped in front of their bodices.

"Thank you, Mr Mycroft," Holmes smiled at the cook. "I will only need a moment or two with these, er, young ladies."

"Very well, young master," the cook replied, and moved to another part of the kitchen. Holmes walked up and down the short line of girls, inspecting each one. I could not understand what this had to do with finding the missing fag, but I had already learned that Holmes had his own peculiar way of doing things. After walking up and down the line of females, Homles bid them all to turn around, putting their backs to him. He again walked up and down the line, closely observing the rear view of every girl. Finally, he cried out "Aha!" and dropped his hand to the floor before placing it under the dress of the fourth girl in the line. Holmes then took the most audacious liberty with the girl, running his hand all the way up underneath her dress until he made contact with her unmentionables.

"Just as I suspected! Watson, come here!" Holmes had lifted the girl's dress all the way to her waist, revealing her knickers and was clutching at the fork of that same garment. I crowded in for a closer look, and by Jove! I saw that in his hand Holmes held a pair of bollocks! This serving wench was a male!

Whipping her cap off, but still grasping the pair of male testicles, Holmes declared "Hatherley, I presume?" to the startled wench, who began blubbering, but was now revealed to be obviously a boy, his subterfuge having been uncovered. "I believe the Head would like a word with you," Holmes said to the sobbing boy. "You have had us all very worried."

We escorted the still-whimpering fag back to Baskerville Wing and the privacy of our room, where we divested the third-former of his ridiculous garb. He sat naked on our bed, a forlorn chap, and now that he was found out, readily confessed how he had got himself into his current situation.

"I didn't mind being a fag for the first week or so," he said, still sobbing occasionally. Holmes gave him a comforting pat on the bare shoulder, which calmed him somewhat. "...I quite liked wanking a senior now and then, or suckng him off. It was fun, and the seniors reminded me a bit of my Uncle, whom I spent the summer break with at his cottage by the sea in Rottingdean, that's just along the south coast from Brighton, don't you know. We had a jolly time, and he was especially interested in preparing me for my fag year. He let me suck and wank him whenever I wanted, and when he fucked my bottom the first time he was very gentle. We fucked every day after that first time, I began to enjoy it so."

"But when I returned to school, some of the other fags told me horrid tales of a certain sixth-former with a wickedly large penis."

"Moriarty!" Holmes whispered.

"Yes, that's his name. They said that he would split me in two if he fucked me with it, that it would hurt like the fires of Hell had been ignited in my bottom. Worse still, after being fucked by him, my bottom hole would never return to its normal size, and I would never again be able to enjoy being fucked by a regular sized penis. That meant I couldn't enjoy holidaying with my Uncle, ever again!" Hatherley indulged himself in a small round of weeping again.

"Boys can be so cruel," Holmes muttered.

"As soon as I saw that Moriarty had put his name next to mine on the fag prefect's sheet, I knew I had to do something. So I visited a friendly teacher, Mr Smythe-Curtiss..."

"The drama teacher?" I interrupted.

"Yes. He has a number of female costumes in the wardrobes of the Drama Room, one of which he loaned me. I stayed the night with him last evening, and he explained to me how to act like a kitchen wench. We had a jolly time. Today I mingled with the other wenches, and I almost got away with it, until...I suppose I knew all along that I would be found out, it's just that...I wish...oh, I would do anything to avoid Moriarty's dreadful cock."

Holmes smiled kindly at the pathetic excuse for a fag. "I think I may be of some assistance, old chap," he said to the boy. "But first, I think your spirits are in need of a little lift. Would you enjoy a suck at this point?" Hatherley smiled and nodded. "Watson, doff that clobber and lay back on the bed. Very good! Hatherley, climb over on top of Watson, in the reverse direction, and present your crotch to his face. Put your own face at his crotch and take his penis in your mouth. As you can see, it is primed and ready!" I am sure Holmes had seen me staring with intense desire at Hatherley's erect penis, (which by my estimation measured a comfortable 4 inches when stiff). It was fringed with a few scraggy pubic hairs at the base, which portended the probability of a wet ejaculation, only my second ever, I hoped.

As soon as Hatherley and I were ensconced in the act of mutual fellation, I felt the bed move. Holmes had also disrobed and now knelt between Hatherley's thighs, so that his balls were directly above my forehead. Oh, happy sight!. He prodded at Hatherley's hole before lining up his stiff staff with that same orifice. I felt Hatherley moan as Holmes entered him, and watched with delight as his balls swung back and forth with each gentle thrust of his erection into Hatherley's anus. I did not envy Hatherley, as I had already known that delicious pain, and would know it again this evening.

Holmes laid out his plan to save Hatherley's bottom even as he plundered it himself. "On the day I arrived at Diogenes Hall, I saw on the noticeboard that a fourth-former by the name of Grimesby had invited volunteers to learn the art of cricket scoring from him, in preparation for next summer's matches. Now, Hatherley, if you were participating in a sport, however remotely, that would excuse you from any further fag responsibilities, would it not? I am sure that rendering Grimesby the occasional wank or suck-off would keep yourself in his good books, what?"

Hatherley squirted a small shot of spooge into my mouth as he climaxed joyfully, on hearing Holmes' rescue plan. Holmes drove his hips into Hatherley's nether regions and held them there as he also triumphed. "But what of the Head?" I asked, still rolling Hatherley's essence around in my mouth.

"Leave him to me," Holmes said with the assurance that I came to admire as the year progressed. We rose from the bed and dressed, Holmes giving Hatherley some of his own larger items of apparel to wear temporarily. We reached the Head's study with fifteen minutes of the dealine to spare. The Head was delighted that Hatherley had been recovered, safe and sound, but still wanted to punish him for the inconvenience he had caused everyone. He had already walked behind his desk and set his hand on a bamboo cane lying against the wall when Holmes intervened.

"Sir, if I may make a request," he asked.

"Be quick about it, Sheridan my boy. There is a pair of trouser bottoms in urgent need of dusting," the Head replied sternly, flicking the cane up and down in front of Hatherley, who was beginning to cower. Holmes moved to stand in front of Hatherley, blocking the Head's advance towards the erstwhile fag.

"Sir, I believe Hatherley has suffered enough, and learned a valuable lesson. I would regard it as a great favour, to me and my grandfather, if you would forbear from adding to the miserable fellow's torment."

I thought the Head would explode. His face went the colour of a Manchester United football shirt, and I will swear I saw steam coming from his ears. The sight of a sixth-grade boy coming between him and his victim, and moreover, pleading for that victim, infuriated him no end. But as the moments passed, so did the crisis, and he calmed down. Placing the cane back onto his desk, he nodded at Holmes. "Very well. For the sake of my friendship with your grandfather. But I may in the future call upon that favour that you offered, from time to time, mark my words. Now be off with you."

We had escaped!

1. The Purloined Pouch

That was not the last that we were to see of Hatherley. Scarce a month had passed (a month of blissful nights impaled on Holmes' erection, from my viewpoint) when he attended our room one afternoon with a desperate plea.

"I say, Holmes, I need your help. Well, not me but Grimesby. I know I can never repay you for the succour you have already provided, but I don't know where else to turn!" the distraught ex-fag gasped.

"Come in, dear boy, come in," Holmes welcomed him. "I was only passing the time with Watson here, playing a few tunes for him on my lute, but we can do that anytime. Come, sit by me, and tell me what the trouble is." That was typical of Holmes - he always paid more attention to the woes of others than to his own comfort.

"Well, I called around at the gym just a few minutes ago, as I always do on a Thursday after class, to meet Grimesby, he has Phys Ed in the last period of the day. When the other fourth formers have gone, we, er, have a shower together, it's the only chance we have, him being in Fourth and me in Third, don't you know. "

"Yes of course, dear chap, a boy has to make do, I quite understand. Do go on," Holmes answered.

"Well, when I arrived I found that the door to the gym was locked. Another boy was also waiting for the class to end, and he told me the terrible news. It seems that there had been a theft!"

"Good Lord!" I cried. "Here? At Diogenes?" I gasped in shock.

"I know, it's just so...unbelievable!" Hatherley moaned. "Apparently, one of Grimesby's classmates left seven shillings and sixpence, his tuck-money, in his locker while he did his physical jerks, or whatever they do in Fourth Form. When he returned, the money had gone. He reported it immediately to the Phys Ed teacher, who naturally demanded that the culprit step forward. No-one did! The teacher then declared that unless the guilty party owned up, every boy would receive six of the best on his bare behind, such punishment to be repeated continuously until the thief's identity was uncovered. And lest any fourth-former think that they could survive such a chastisement at the hands of the Phys Ed teacher, who was, after all, only a retired Welsh Rugby International whose shoulders weren't what they used to be, the punishment was to be administered by a sixth-former with an exceedingly strong arm!"

I gasped aloud. "Not-"

"Moriarty!" Holmes whispered. It was only natural for the Phys Ed teacher to obtain the services of the fittest Senior in the school, if his intention was to terrify the fourth-formers into revealing what, if anything, they knew about this heinous crime. But now Hatherley's friend Grimesby was in the firing line, for a crime he did not commit.

"How long until Moriarty begins to carry out the teacher's threat?" Holmes asked.

"He has given the class until dinner - 6 p.m.," Hatherley said, his voice on the verge of breaking in despair.

"That gives us-" he consulted his watch "-two and three-quarter hours! Watson, the game's afoot!" We removed ourselves from our room, sending Hatherley back to his own residence to remain calm (and not get in our way), and strode briskly to the wing of the school where the physical education facilities (the ball courts, indoor swimming pool and various exercise machines) were housed.

As Hatherley had told us, the Phys Ed room was locked. "Keep a lookout, Watson, there's a good chap," Holmes whispered, withdrawing a slim leather wallet from his breast pocket. I always got a shiver when he said that, fearing that we would surely be caught in the act of something nefarious. Using his set of lockpicks Holmes had the door open in short order ("A good friend of my late father taught me the use of these instruments, Watson", he told me once when I enquired about them), and we snuck inside.

Apart from the smell of sweaty teenager, the room was unremarkable. We could see a bank of clothing lockers arrayed along one wall, with low wooden benches along the opposite wall, with towel hooks adorning the third wall. Through an open archway we could hear the dulcet Welsh-accented tones of the Phys Ed teacher urging the miscreant to clear the stain on his honour by owning up and letting his classmates go. I was terrified that at any moment we would be discovered! For his part, Holmes simply tapped his nose with hs finger as he walked slowly around the small room, inspecting the lockers. Well, everyone called them "lockers" probably in slavish imitation of some American movie, but in fact the clothing receptacles were more like tall narrow wardrobes, with only a curtain in front and nothing in back.

"Watson, come here!" Holmes whispered urgently to me. "What do you make of that?" he said, pointing at the floor in front of the sixth locker. At first I could not see to what he was referring, so I got down on my hands and knees and made closer inspection, only to find a small droplet of liquid on the timber floor, seemingly quite freshly deposited, of unknown substance.

"Taste it," Holmes whispered again. "We need to establish its constituence," he explained when I wrinkled my nose at his request. Still, I suppose had it been even a fresh dog dropping I would have obeyed Holmes, and this looked no more dangerous than teen sweat, so I dipped my tongue in it.

Smacking my lips and recalling all the tastes I had ever encountered, I was able to advise Sheridan that the droplet was constituted of spooge. "It's cum, Holmes," I told him.

"As I suspected, Watson. Now, file the flavour away in your memory banks, because we will have need of a comparison shortly, if I am not mistaken." I did not feel put out by Holmes' instruction, as I was largely to blame for it myself. One night, after encouraging Holmes to fuck me most thoroughly from behind, while I crouched on all fours, I remarked to him, apropos of nothing at all, that Hatherley's spooge tasted different to the spooge of the head boy of the fag common room. Holmes was quite thoughtful after hearing this, and speculated aloud whether everyone's spooge was of a unique flavour. I forgot all about it when he continued his enthusiastic rogering of my bottom, but obviously he did not.

"Now, Watson, do you still have the Head's letter? I feel it is time to take it out for an invigorating canter again," Sheridan said. I found it in my pocket, carefully unfolded it and gave it to him. He strode to the archway and burst into the room where the fourth-formers sat, along one wall, being berated in Welsh by the Phys Ed teacher, Mr Llewellyn Davis. Thankfully, Moriarty had not yet been summoned, so matters had not yet passed beyond the point of no return.

"What is the meaning of this?" the man bellowed. "How did you boyos get in here?"

"A letter from the Head, Sir, if it please you," Holmes replied, flourishing the letter. Mr Davis scanned it quickly before calming down somewhat.

"Full authority, eh?" Mr Davis spoke gruffly. "Very well, what do you need?"

"Sir, may I ask if any of these boys excused themselves from the lesson at any time today?" Holmes began.

"Yes, two of them, about a minute apart. Call of nature, boyo, can't be helped. I naturally suspected them of the theft too, but their lockers and persons were thoroughly searched, nothing."

"Even so, may I question them? Privately?" Holmes pursued politely.

"Well the Head's letter says you can, so...hop to it! Meriwether, Royston-Hill, accompany this lad to the lockers, chop-chop!" Two of the fourth-formers rose from their bench and trudged after Holmes and I back to the room we first encountered. Both boys looked very sheepish, for fourth formers, more so than might be expected if they were innocent.

Holmes started the interrogation in quite a mild fashion, I thought. "Meriwether, is it," he addressed the larger of the two. Receiving a nod, he asked "Would you mind pointing out your locker, please?" Surprised by the question, the lad raised his arm and indicated the second-to-last locker.

"Very good," said Sheridan. "And you, Royston-Hill, would you kindly show me which is your locker?"

"It's right here, but I never stole nuthin', I swear!" the youth answered, on the verge of distress, pointing at the locker next to Meriwether's.

"No, of course not, my good man, I never suspected anything of the sort," Sheridan countered amiably. "Now, which one is the locker of the boy whose money was taken?" Having already admitted to the position of their own lockers, the youths could hardly act ignorant of this last question, and each extended an arm in the direction of the sixth locker from the end - the very one which had the droplet of moisture in front of it!

Now, at this point I should offer some background information about the sexual mores of the older pupils of Diogenes Hall, as compared with other private schools in England, since each has its own peculiarities. In point of fact, all of the sexual behaviour of all the schools other than Diogenes can readily be described as "peculiarity", but enough of that. As the reader may have observed from the earlier chapter, Sixth Formers make use of good looking Third Formers for sexual gratification because females are off limits, their charms being overwhelming and not conducive to studious habits or vigorous sporting endeavours. Fifth Formers prey upon any boy lower than the third form who goes about by himself, since he is an easy target (one of the several reasons Holmes and I are usually together). Second- and First- Formers usually just wank off, either singly or in groups. Boys in the junior school rarely get beyond giggling at farts and stiffies.

Which leaves Fourth Formers. It is in the Fourth Form, uniquely, that passionate friendships between pairs of boys develop. (I suppose that indicates that Holmes and I are some four years ahead of our time!) The reasons for this are not simple. Bear in mind that Fourth Form is made of a mixture of former fags (many of whom pine for the days when they were being rogered regulary by a sixth-former) and sporting types who regret that they spent all of their Third Form chasing leather balls about a field or a court to a greater or lesser degree of futility. It is hardly surprising that pairs of Fourth-Formers will gravitate towards each other, to fulfill their mutual needs.

And so it was with Meriwether and Royston-Hill. Holmes deduced that from their body language and the looks they gave each other, that these two fellows were not exactly candid when they told Mr Llewellyn Davis that they each needed to answer calls of nature. Holmes decided to proceed to specifics, or as our American cousins would say, "cut the bull."

"So, it was in front of this locker," Holmes asserted, indicating the locker of the victim of robbery, "that you two fellows were making love?" he asked, as casually as if he had asked them if they had been combing their hair. The two boys were frozen with embarrassment, their faces reddened with chagrin. "No need to worry, chaps, I am not the morality police. But I do need one more piece of data to confirm my theory. Watson, if you please?"

I knew now why Holmes asked me to file the taste of that spooge from the floor in my memory bank. I sank to my knees in front of Meriwether and drew down his athletic shorts. Quite a tasty morsel sprang forth, the biggest I had yet encountered. "Just the head, Watson, if you please. Roll back the foreskin and register the taste on your tongue."

"It's not him," I reported immediately, ruing that I had to release his glans from my mouth.

"Very well, now the other fellow." I moved to a position in front of Royston-Hill, and drew down his athletic shorts. His penis sprang up, a prettier and smaller one than Meriwether's, and circumcised. I let his knobhead rest on my tongue as I savoured the flavour. I was instantly astounded.

"It's him!" I cried joyfully as soon as his penis was clear of my teeth. Holmes smiled his congratulations.

"Now that we have established that the two of you were engaged in some form of initmacy on this very spot at the exact time that the money disappeared, suppose you tell me what happened," Holmes asked the two boys, quite reasonably.

Royston-Hill glanced at Meriwether, and received some unspoken communication back from him. "It's true," he said. "But I'm not ashamed of it. I love him. We sleep in different bedrooms, so the only chances we get to...be together, we take. When Merry got permission to use the toilet from Old Llew, I waited a few seconds, and then also asked for a toilet break. We met right here, as you correctly guessed. We knew we had no time for fancy foreplay, so I turned to face the nearest locker and braced myself on it, while Merry pulled my shorts down and rogered me from behind. It was divine! He pushed into me so forcefully that I nearly knocked the locker over. Just before he finished, I...polluted myself. I caught most of it in my hand, but a drop must have slid off. But we never took any money, I give you my word! We were...too busy!" I felt a pang of jealousy at Royston-Hill's good fortune, having that lovely cock up his bottom, however infrequently.

Holmes smiled. "I believe you, my good man. You have been honest with me, and indeed, your honesty has helped to solve the mystery and save your classmates a horrible fate at the hands of Moriarty! Go back to your classmates." The two teens departed, and I immediately questioned Sheridan.

"How on earth have they solved the mystery, Holmes?" I demanded. "Where is the money?" I was baffled.

"Did you not hear the lad's testimony, Watson? He said that the locker shook with the force of their lovemaking, to the point that he feared it might topple over. So all we need do is...this!" Holmes took a strong grip of the locker, and leaned the top of it towards himself and dragged it forwards some twelve inches; there, on the floor, was a small purse. It had obviously been dislodged and fallen out of the back of the locker and rolled underneath. And those fellows claimed that they had searched! Holmes picked up the purse and we both returned to the main room where Mr Davis was still urging the miscreant to own up.

"You need keep these fellows no further, Mr Davis: I have discovered the missing money!" Sheridan declared triumphantly. "Those two lads had nothing to do with it, but they were most helpful." The boy whose property it was leapt up and grabbed the purse from Sheridan, unzipping it to confirm that the money, seven shillings and sixpence, was intact. Mr Davies gave a dismissive wave of his hand and the group of teens thundered to the locker area and began disrobing. Holmes hauled me out of there before I started to drool.

1. Lanced Bottoms.

By the end of Term 1, Holmes' reputation as a solver of mysteries, finder of lost things and saviour of the wrongfully accused had spread around the school, and the two of us were treated by our elders (and even a few teachers) with some deference. I thought that it was not only his investigative prowess that folk were in awe of - they feared his sharp eyes and sometimes, sharper tongue.

As a result of this well-earned reputation, Holmes was beginning to have a greater number of calls upon his time. Some of these he considered for a few moments before dismissing with an easy answer, others he referred to the Head for further investigation. Sometimes a case struck him as worthy of his talents, and he took it on personally. Such occurred when we were asked by Mr Carruthers to call on him in his rooms.

Mr Carruthers taught Geography and a little History to the lower school, grades three, four, five and six. Indeed, he was one of our teachers, Holmes' and mine, but we scarcely noticed him or his subject, as I had well and truly had my fill of foreign countries, and Holmes cared very little for it, except to keep track of where his grandfather was. Mr Carruthers was also housemaster of the Second Year boarders, who were domiciled in Cherrywood Wing. It was there that we called upon him.

"Thank you for coming to see me, boys," the man began, as we sat on a comfortable settee with him. "It is a very delicate matter that I must raise with you, so I must first ask for your assurance of discretion - my very employment at Diogenes Hall is at grave risk."

While neither of us cared one way or the other about Geography, we both instinctively felt that it would be a shame if a teacher with a good reputation for caring about his boys such as Mr Carruthers had were to be lost to the school, it would have been a shame. "We are at your service, Sir," Holmes declared, in words that I was becoming used to hearing. "How may we be of assistance?"

Before the man could speak, the door burst open and a second-form boy raced within. Ignoring Holmes and I, this lad strode up to his Housemaster. "Sir, is this a pimple or an insect bite?" he demanded, turning his back to the teacher and pulling his short trousers down at the back, thus exposing a delightfully curved bottom. I admit my eyes nearly fell out of my head, if that is indeed possible. "Finsley says it is, but Coxforth said it was just a mozzie bite."

The teacher inspected the beautiful rump closely, his hands all over it, before declaring, "Not sure, Arthurs, but I will apply some antiseptic cream to it, which will be efficacious in either case," the man reassured the boy, rubbing in some lotion from a tube on his desk.

"Effy-wot, Sir?" the boy replied, giggling as he pulled up his drawers.

"Look it up in your Funk & Wagnalls, Arthurs. Now be off with you!" he gave the boy a final pat on the rear end and sent him on his way. "Now, where was I?" Mr Carruthers squirmed a little in his seat, and I got the impression that the matter that was troubling the teacher was delicate indeed. "The plain truth of it is, boys, I am being blackmailed," he stated frankly, and Holmes nodded to encourage further revelations. "There are four boys, Second-formers, all weekly boarders. They have represented to me that there exist written statements that they have...constructed, each one penned by themselves, accusing me of commiting buggery and other perversions upon them, and are insisting that I resign from the School, otherwise they will hand these documents over to the Head, and I will be sacked in disgrace, and be unlikely to ever gain another teaching position. Teaching is my life, boys!"

Holmes considered the teacher's words,and began his gentle interrogation. "Good gracious, Sir, how awful for you. Please do not be offended if I ask whether there is any truth in any of these...statements?"

Mr Carruthers raised an eyebrow at Holmes and without hesitation answered "Absolutely not!"

"Quite," Holmes replied. "And have you enjoyed the company of any other boy or boys, in a physical way, that these four may have become privy to? That is, do they have any reason of choosing this particular method of blackmail over, say, accusing you of doctoring exam results, or excessive brutality, or condoning laziness, or indeed any other of a hundred offences that a teacher may commit?"

A second interruption occurred at that precise moment: the door to Mr Carruthers' study swung wide and another second-former burned the carpet with the eagerness of his entry. "Sir! Sir! I got one! Look!" the lad exclaimed, pulling his shorts down in front as he ran to his teacher and exposed his crotch. "It's at the bottom of my sack, that's why I couldn't see it when I checked these last few nights! Look, Sir!" Obligingly, the teacher looked at the indicated place, carefully fondling the boy's balls and penis as he did so.

"You're right, Warrington, it's definitely a hair! Congratulations, old boy, or should I say, old man! Have you shown Peterson yet?" the man asked.

"I'll show him right now, Sir. I just wanted you to see it first! Thank you, Sir!" the boy gushed as he pulled his shorts back up and ran off, dragging the door shut as he did so.

"I do apologise for the frequent interruptions, boys, but as you can see, it's a 24 hour-a day job, and second-formers need so much nurturing, don't you think? Now, where were we?"

Holmes smiled. "I had asked you if you knew why these four boys chose this blackmail method over any others."

The teacher's shoulders sagged. "Everyone said you were brilliant," he murmured. "Yes, it is true, I have dallied with some boys over the years. Never against their will, mind - they sought me out, in fact. In a boarding school there are bound to be a few boys who miss their fathers, or their uncles, or who simply miss the affection that only an adult can give. With some boys, that...affection...crosses the line. Oh, I've never done anything to a boy that he didn't ask for, verbally or otherwise. But, you see, if a boy approaches me, I simply can't resist."

"I quite understand, Sir, believe me. But I shall have to know the names of the boys that you...dallied with, going back, say, the last five years. I must have information if I am to release you from this evil," Holmes said.

"It's a short list. Three boys, in fact. Paul Collins...Oliver Platting..." the teacher seemed to be lost in a reverie of his own.

"And...?" Sheridan prompted.

"...and Seamus Moriarty," Mr Carruthers completed his list.

"Moriarty!" Holmes repeated. "A younger brother of James, the senior at this school, perhaps?"

"Cousin, actually. Seamus was eight when he came to Diogenes. At that time I taught History to the upper junior school, and had the nightly care of Doyle Wing, where the third graders were housed. He was a most affectionate boy, most affectionate indeed. He clung to me from the very first day of term, and I...was powerless to resist him. Within a week he was joining me in bed, and our relationship blossomed from there. May I be frank?"

"Please do. Neither Watson nor I is likely to be shocked," Holmes replied for both of us.

"Seamus suffered from a desperate, almost pathological need to be physically close to a man. I was the lucky recipient, I suppose, of his ardours. He sucked my cock on the very second day he was here, and within the week I was fucking his precious bottom twice a night. He was, quite simply, insatiable. We continued on in this way, happily, for eight months."

"What happened?" I blurted out, already feeling a stiffness in my own trousers at the mere thought of getting rogered by this handsome man twice a night.

"His parents got divorced. His mother got custody, and returned to live with her family in Ireland. She took him out of the school, out of the country, and out of my life."

"Forgive me, Sir, but why didn't you simply hand these four malcontents over to Mr Lestrade? I am certain he would have no truck with blackmail, regardless of the subject matter," Holmes enquired.

Mr Carruthers gave a rueful smile. "I probably would, if I knew who they were. All of their communications to me thus far have been anonymous. A note slipped under my door. That is why I have sought your help. I don't know how to counterattack an unknown enemy!" At that point, there was a soft knock at the study door, which I thought made a pleasant change from the boisterous entry of the previous boys. A head peeped around the door and a small voice said "Sir? Can I..."

"Yes, yes, of course, St Clair, come in, don't be bothered by these two lads. What can I do for you?" The boy, who seemed to me to be rather puny for a second-former, dawdled over to his teacher, and stood very close to him. For a horrifying moment I feared the lad was going to whisper in the teacher's ear, but was relieved to see that he spoke normally, if a little weakly.

"Sir, Watling hit me in the tummy, and now it hurts," he said sheepishly.

"What a naughty boy he is for doing that," the teacher reprimanded Watling in absentia. "Now, you just lie across my lap here and I'll make it all better for you." The boy's face lit up as he scrambled onto the man's thighs and stretched out, face up, letting the man pull his shirt out of its tuck and undo the clasp of his shorts, pulling the zipper down as he did so. St Clair sighed as the man's hand roamed all over his abdomen, even going well above what could reasonably be called "tummy", to his chest, and rather far below as well, insinuating itself below the waistband of the boy's underwear to caress the boy's pale skin in wide sweeps. At that moment, I longed for Watling to hit me in the tummy.

Eventually, with a last little pat to the small protuberance in the front of St Clair's underwear, the man told his student that he was 'all better', and that he could get up now. He zipped the boy's shorts up and tucked in his shirt. "Thank you Sir," the boy whimpered, and I thought he was about to kiss his teacher, but he turned and skipped to the door.

"It is clear that your boys are deeply fond of you, Sir," Holmes said, in his blunt way. "May I ask, if you do not know who these four are, then how do you know they are weekly boarders?"

"It's obvious," the teacher declared, as though it was obvious. "There are no day students in the second form this year, and none of my year-round boarders would do such a thing!"

Holmes smiled and stood up. "Well, Mr Carruthers, you have given us a lot of valuable information, and a considerable challenge. I will take the case! Watson, let us be off. Good day to you, Sir," Sheridan said as we left the man to his work.

"Well, Watson, what of that encounter?" Holmes asked when we were seated in the Quad, which is where Holmes liked to do a lot of his thinking.

"I hope we can save his job, and that he's still at Diogenes when we get to the second form," I answered.

"Quite, Watson, but I was thinking more in terms of the case itself. Blackmailers, especially juvenile ones, usually desire a more material reward than just the removal of a teacher. Money, for example, instantly springs to mind. And can we rely on Mr Carruthers' intuition that it is weekly boarders who are the culprits? After all, I am a weekly boarder, and I haven't blackmailed anybody. Which reminds me, we should have obtained the note that the blackmailers slipped under his door - or if he has destroyed it, then possibly he can recall the precise wording of the note and write it out for us afresh. Watson, can you go back to him and get that note? I will be in our room, contemplating further."

I did not need a second invitation to go back to see Mr Carruthers! On the way I briefly wondered whether he had a hairy chest, one that felt rough yet soft as one's hands carressed it...I was so lost in my reverie that I almost missed the turn for his room, but found it and knocked. Mr Carruthers was within, of course, but he had company. A boy, obviously a second-former was kneeling on the couch (presumably to equalise their heights) as Mr Carruthers hugged him closely, so closely in fact that both his hands had run underneath the boy's shorts and were stroking his bottom, his apparently underwear-free bottom.

"...and I'm sure they'll write to you properly the very first chance they get, Roylott. Getting an envelope with no letter inside was a minor oversight on their part, I'm sure of it; you said yourself they were very busy, now, didn't you. I tell you what, tonight you can come visit me after prep and you can use my telephone to call them on, all right, old chap? There's a good fellow, now off you go, and no more tears, what?" the teacher consoled. The boy rushed past me as I approached the boarding master.

"Poor little chap's parents are overseas, and his mobile phone has a block on it," he explained. "Now, Watson, what can I do for you? Don't tell me Holmes has cracked it already?"

"Er, no Sir, not yet, I don't think so, at least, although he is rather good at this type of thing. Actually he sent me to collect the note that was slipped under your door, if you still have it. Or if you can't, possibly you could write out what it said, that would suffice, Sir."

"Of course, Watson, I have it in my bedroom. Don't like to keep that sort of thing out here where one of the boys might accidentally stumble across it, don't you know. Come along, and I'll get it for you." I followed the teacher into his private room, and my eyes immediately fell upon his bed. Was this the same place, I wondered, where he rogered young Seamus twice a night, and Oliver, and...whatever the other boy's name was? My penis stiffened to its full three inches in a matter of moments, and I attempted to readjust it within my short trousers when Mr Carruthers produced the letter. He caught me in the very act of erectile relocation.

"Here it is, Watson. I say, are you feeling alright?" the man said, sitting on his bed right by where I stood.

"I...I..." No words exited my mouth. I wanted to say that I would like to be held by him, caressed by him, made love to by him, like those second-formers were, but nothing came out. He held out his arms, and I could not stop myself. I fell into his embrace and allowed him to hug me to his body. As he did so, he must have noticed my erection prodding him in the abdomen.

"Now, what have we here?" he murmured as he turned my unresisting body to the side and ran his hands over the front of my shorts. "A lump? It feels like a very nice lump indeed," Mr Carruthers whispered as his hand cupped my little bulge and squeezed gently. "Do you want to show me your little lump? Do you want Nursie to look after it for you?" he cajoled, and I could not prevent my head from nodding in the affirmative. "We'll just undo these pants," he chatted amiably as he unclasped my shorts and lowered the zipper. The two sides fell away and my protrusion stood out proudly. "It certainly is a pretty lump, isn't it," he said softly, his mouth so close to my ear that I could feel his breath upon it. One of his hands cupped my bottom so that I would not swoon, the other pulled the hem of my briefs outwards and down, exposing my cock.

"Oh!" was all I could manage as my penis bobbed up and down, glad to be free.

"What a pretty lump to be sure!" Mr Carruthers said, and for a brief moment I felt that I did swoon, for the next conscious thought that entered my mind was that I was fully naked, lying on his bed, the covers pulled back, with Mr Carruthers gloriously naked lying beside me. His chest was indeed hairy, and I could not restrain my hands as they roamed all over it, right down to his thicket of pubic hair, below which was a beautiful adult male penis, the first I had ever seen, quivering, pulsing even, waiting to be held and loved. I did not ask his permission; I dived straight onto it. It was by far the largest morsel I had ever taken into my mouth, and I felt a sensation of deep fulfilment as I sucked and licked it.

Mr Carruthers turned my body around and set it atop his own. I felt the stubble of his cheek rub across my bald pubic mound, then across my sack, and finally I felt his tongue, teasing my cock. He clutched at my bottom as we sucked each other's instruments, myself cupping his beautiful balls as I enjoyed the muskiness of his organ. All too soon he groaned and spurted his spooge into my mouth, a much more copious thirst-quencher than I have ever had. I was glad that Mr Carruthers was my first adult male cum, and I already began to look forward to being two years older and in the second form!

I swung the door of B12 open and floated into the room I shared with Sheridan. Naturally, Holmes noticed my altered mood right off. "Now that you have that out of the way, perhaps we can concentrate on the case! My word, Watson, I sometimes feel that I am partly responsible for turning you into a wanton little tart! No male is safe with you around! Have you brought the piece of paper?"

"Here it is, dear fellow! We simply must get Mr Carruthers off the hook! He would be such a loss...to the School". I sat on the bed and watched as Holmed examined the sheet of paper.

"You know, Watson, I'm beginning to think that we are going at this thing from the wrong angle entirely! The only piece of evidence that backs up the 'four blackmailing malcontents' theory is this page. What if there are no blackmailing second formers? How would Carruthers know any different?"

I pondered for a moment, still savouring the taste of Mr Carruthers' spooge in my mouth. "Well, he would only know what the note told him," I replied.

"Exactly! It is my belief that the elder Moriarty invented the whole scheme to avenge his younger cousin. He wrote this note, slipped it under the teacher's door, and hoped that Carruthers would depart his post quietly as requested. I have no doubt that there exist four testimonies (all fabrications of course) accusing him, which will be similarly deposited under the Head's door should Carruthers not comply. We could burglarise Moriarty's room when he is away and simply take the falsehoods, but he will only create more of them."

"We could go to the Head and tell him not to believe everything that he reads?" I suggested.

"Possible, but that would only infuriate Moriarty into an even more desperate ploy - he might entice some second-formers to seduce their teacher so that he can capture the act on video, and hand that over to the Head. Mr Lestrade might be able to ignore anonymous unsigned notes, but he could not overlook moving pictures. No, I think the only way to deal with blackmailers is to give them a taste of their own medicine. We must fight fire with fire, Watson. Come!"

We departed immediately for an undisclosed destination. It turned out to be the fag common room. We knocked, only this time Holmes called out his name, so that the Head Boy of the fag common room would not give us his comic routine from behind the heavy door. "Aha!" he cried, as soon as he saw us. "Holmes, of course, and you have brought the delightful Watson with you. Well done! Come in, chaps, and pull up a pew!"

We hurried into the room, Holmes concerned that our movements were being monitored. "What can I do for the great boy detective today?" he asked. Holmes had the decency to blush before outlining his plan to trap Moriarty. I confess I listened closely as well, as Holmes had not yet confided in me.

"Tell me," he began, "does Moriarty still call upon the fags in their rooms?"

"Like clockwork, old boy. So much so that I have noticed a marked increase in claims of the 24-hour 'flu every Thursday between 7 and 8 in the evening."

"Hmm," Holmes mused, tapping his nose with his index finger. "And are there any of the fags whom you would describe as particularly libertine in their approach to their duties? Boys who take a lot of enjoyment in their work?"

"Ah, now you are describing Dartnell to a 'T', old boy. Proper little tart, he is. Would open his legs to an Arabian stallion if I asked him to. Bungs on a big act while he is about it, as well. Likes to make out the sixth-former is ripping him apart, but secretly he loves every thrust of it."

"Oh, very good! Perfect! And would you say this Dartnell was a well-built fellow?" Holmes asked.

"Not a bit of it, old boy. Why he's no bigger than your Watson here. He could pass for a sixth grader, except for his fuzz."

"His...fuzz?" I asked, keen to be involved in the conversation.

"Pubes, old boy. Dick whiskers. His nether eyebrow. You know!"

"Could you oblige me by allocating Dartnell's name to Moriarty's next visit? I ask not for myself, but for one who cannot ask for himself. I am sure you know him - Mr Carruthers!"

The fag's face lit up at the mention of his boarding master from last year. "Do a favour for Nursie? Why, of course, old boy, glad to do it. I'm rather fond of the man, he was a huge help to me last year. Consider it done!"

"May we call upon Dartnell, to confirm the arrangement?" Holmes pressed.

"Room F18, old boy. Just knock and go straight in." We proceeded out of the common room into a long hallway lined with rooms in numerical order. F18 was where one would expect to find it, so we knocked and entered. A smallish boy lay on a bed reading a comic book, possibly The Beano. He was naked, and I immediately registered what the head fag was referring to, a cute little bush over his penis.

"Hallo, Dartnell I presume? I'm Holmes, this is Watson. I've come to ask a rather large favour. Well, two favours actually. But I assure you they are in a good cause. The very best, in fact. Did you have Mr Carruthers last year?" Sheridan ingratiated himself with the boy, sitting on the side of the bed.

The mention of the second-form boarding master's name got the fag's attention. "Is this about Nursie? That's what we called him. I really like him! What can I do to help?"

"Well, first I need to shave off your pubic hair. May I?" Holmes enquired genially, withdrawing a small electric razor from his pocket. "And those few that are currently gracing your ballbag also, if I may?"

It was at times such as these that Holmes was a sheer delight to watch - the way his mind always seemed to be three or four steps ahead of his opponents, like a chess grandmaster, or a lion tamer. He carefully shaved Dartnell's bush (and his bag) making the boy able to pass for an eleven year old. He positioned a mini-camera and microphone on the top of Dartnell's wardrobe, angled to the fag's bed. When Thursday evening rolled around, we watched Moriarty enter the fag common room, then waited a few moments before positioning ourselves outside Dartnell's room.

The lad did not disappoint us. His performance was worthy of the best the West End had to offer. "Oooh, Jumbo, it's so huge, please don't put it in my bum, you'll tear me in two. Let me wank it off for you, I'm good at that. Or I'll suck it, I don't mind. Oh, lord have mercy, not on my back, you'll crush me as well as split me, oh god, it'll never go in, oh, ohh, ooooh, no, no, let it rest a minute, so I can get used to it, aaah, not so deep, you'll stop my heart, aaah, you're ripping my hole, ohh, ohh, ohhh..."

The head boy of the fag common room (whose name we never did ascertain) was crouching in the hallway with us, smirking at the sounds coming from Dartnell's room. "The wanton little slut," he whispered. "The bigger they are, the more he likes them. And the more he complains, the more vigorous a pounding he gets, just like he wants." We departed quietly, with myself lingering to see whether Holmes wanted me to thank the head boy in a, ahem, practical way. He didn't.

When Moriarty returned to his digs in the Seniors wing, he found a note under his door:

"Swear on your honour to drop this vendetta against Carruthers, or a very interesting video of yourself consorting with an eleven year old will find its way onto the School's intraweb. Signify your agreement to this ultimatum by hanging your school tie around the neck of the statue of Chaucer in the Quad by dawn tomorrow."

It is a curous blind spot that many private schools have, that while they absolutely decry sexual misconduct between older and younger boys, they see nothing wrong in the systematic use of fags. The school leadership simply chooses to believe that all a fag ever does is brew tea and perhaps a spot of cleaning. So Moriarty knew that while his activities in the fags' rooms would usually be overlooked, such would not be the case if everyone's noses were rubbed in it.

In the chilly light the next morning, Holmes climbed the statue and examined the necktie around Chaucer's throat. Turning it over, he saw a single name embroidered onto the nametag: Moriarty.

1. Holmes Cracks It.

I believe I mentioned earlier that Holmes was a weekly boarder. Such boys were permitted to go home on Friday evenings, after class, and return to the school on Sunday afternoon, before supper. From the very first day that we made each other's acquaintance, Holmes invited me to his home for the weekend. The procedure to permit this is to complete a form called an 'exeat', and have it signed by the House prefect, who in the case of the sixth-graders, was Woodcock.

This Woodcock was a rather sour fellow for a sixth-former, immune to the enticements of the fags, or indeed any form of enjoyment. He took great delight in denying every one of my exeats, week after week, on the feeble grounds that 'Holmes already sees you five days a week, he doesn't want to be lumbered with you on weekends as well!' This unhappy state of affairs dragged on for months; I was beginning to think that I would never see the inside of 221B Baker Street, where Sheridan had his digs. But Fate intervened: Woodcock had to attend the funeral of some elderly relative or other, and was therefore absent from School at the crucial moment when I presented my exeat to his replacement. Grosvenor signed it without even looking!

I cannot begin to describe my excitement at visiting the residence of the great Sherlock in London! Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper of the great detective and guardian of Sheridan on weekends, was simply a delight! She is an excellent cook, and fussed over both of us whenever she could, but at the same time she let us have our privacy, especially in the evening.

Sheridan made love to me in his own bed on that first Friday evening, a wonderful night, and we awoke together on Saturday morning, refreshed and eager to explore all that 221B held in store, but our expedition was interrupted by the telephone. "Sheridan, dear, it's for you," Mrs Hudson explained, holding the old black bakelite handset out for my friend. "I believe it's to do with school," she added helpfully.

"Do forgive me for calling you at home, dear fellow, but I am at my wit's end. I need your help," the voice on the telephone beseeched.

"Of course, my good Sir, " Holmes replied cautiously, "but you have the advantage of me."

"I do beg your pardon, Master Holmes. My name is Christopher Hay-Moulton, and my son is one of your classmates."

"Ah, yes, Haybale, of course. I mean Alexander, I do beg your pardon, Sir," Holmes replied.

"No apology necessary, old chap, I was given a similar monicker when I was at Diogenes. These things tend to run in families. I was most impressed when I heard from my elder son Haystack, that is to say, Charles, how you solved the mystery of the missing tuck-money in the Phys Ed locker room. Ahh, the times I had in that room. I am most grateful to you for saving my elder son's bottom from the depredations of that senior boy, what is his name, now..."

"Moriarty!" Holmes whispered.

"Indeed. And now it appears that I must have recourse to your assistance again, if you would be so kind."

"I am at your service Sir, yours and your familiy's."

"Thank you so much, dear fellow. To put it simply, Haybale, I mean Alexander, is about to be sent down for cheating on an exam!"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Holmes. "What does Alexander have to say about the circumstances? I assume he has been in contact with you?"

"He has, as well as that fool Lestrade. Heaven only knows why the School Governors chose him for that position. In any case, I understand that when Alexander performed exceptionally well on a Latin paper, eyebrows were raised, as he had never shown much facility with that language to date. Do you, er, take Latin also, Holmes?"

"No Sir, my grandfather tutored me in Latin and Greek from an early age and I am fluent in both. Mr Lestrade suggested I select other subjects, so as not to shame the classics teachers."

"Quite, quite. Well, the bare fact of it is that a completed exam paper was found in Alexander's desk after the exam, and the conclusion drawn was that Alexander must have copied from it, to produce his surprising result."

"Did Hayb- er, Alexander say where the completed paper came from?" Holmes asked.

"This is the most curious aspect of the whole affair, my boy. He says he purchased it from the very same Moriarty, who offered it to him as a study aid. I assure you, my son did not realise it was a completed exam paper he was buying - he actually thought it was a genuine study aid, you know the type of thing, verb conjugations, translations of common nouns, classical constructions, some verses of Cicero and Plato, I expect you would be familiar with the type."

"Indeed, Sir. It seems a valuable classmate will be lost if nothing is done to prevent it. I will take the case! You can depend on me!"

"Oh, thank you, my dear fellow, thank you indeed. I shall leave the matter in your capable hands. Good morning to you."

Putting down the telephone handset, Holmes turned to me and said "We must return to Diogenes Hall immediately, Watson. Your visit to 221B must be interrupted, perhaps postponed, sadly, but justice cannot be delayed. Mrs Hudson, our train tickets are good for any return journey, are they not?"

"Why, yes, dear. It says so on the back. Are you boys off already?"

"I fear so, madam. Please excuse us - I am needed at the School. Come Watson, the game's afoot!"

We engaged a Hansom at the front entrance of 221B, which took us to Kings Cross railway station. Holmes consulted his rail timetable to find the next train back to Diogenes, and we verified the correct platform number. Our train departed on schedule, leaving us an hour and a half to ourselves.

"I say, Watson, I've heard that there is a most remarkable sensation to be had when making love on a moving train. I think I should like to verify this information. Would you care to accompany me to the W.C.?" Sheridan asked.

"Rather!" I exclaimed, dreading a tedious journey through the countryside. We left our seats and made for the end of the carriage, where the water closets are usually located. Holmes urged me to enter first, there being very little room within for one person, much less for two. I stood over the porcelain bowl, my hands braced against the wall above the cistern, as Sheridan undid my shorts from behind and lowered them, along with my briefs.

"Oh, Sheridan," I moaned as he pushed my shirttails up, running his hands up my back.

"I swear to you, Jonny, I shall never tire of the sight and feel of your bottom," he murmured in my ear. "Now spread those thighs a little and let me enter you." I sighed with pleasure as I felt his erection prod at my bottom hole. Adjusting his stance, he pushed forward, lodging his member within.

"Let is rest there, Sheridan, for just a moment...aaah...I can feel the motion of the train joggling and jiggling it about...I fear I do not deserve such delights...mmmm...now push, if you would...yess...yesss." Holmes had one hand on my bare back as he pushed inside me, imparting the most delicious sensations. His stamina was remarkable, for one so young, and I thanked my good fortune for the day he came into my life.

A knock at the door told us we had better finish our enjoyment of each others' bodies. It would not do to have some impatient commuter call the train guard to unlock the W.C. with us still inside, our clothing in disarray! The balance of the trip was more pleasant, the rolling countryside no longer a burden but a pleasant calmative.

At school, our first task was to locate Haybale. We found him sitting by himself in the sixth grade common room, all of his other friends having deserted him, not wanting the taint of 'cheat' clinging to them by association. "I have spoken with your father, dear boy, and I told him that I would help," Holmes began.

"There's nothing you can do," the boy responded miserably. "I'm a dead duck!"

"We shall see," Holmes replied. "Tell me how you obtained the page of exam answers."

Perhaps it would be helpful if at this point I interjected into the narrative a brief explanation of another tradition of boarding school life: exams. Exams have been with us for several centuries, as a means of assigning grades to scholars, separating the able from the less able, the academically inclined from the dullard, the future university student from the future factory labourer. And for as long as there have been exams, there have been students, quite well-intentioned I'm sure, who have endeavoured to assist their classmates by generating 'study aides'. For while some boys strive with all their mights to retain important facts, their brains may simply not be up to the challenge.

Enter the study aid. It is a summary of what might be on the exam, compiled by one of the smarter (but poorer) boys in the class, and made available for sale to whomever will pay a modest fee. There is no guarantee that a study aid will help, but it cannot hurt. Some study aids are passed down from older brother to younger brother, even father to son, such is the unchanging nature of certain school subjects, such as Latin. But the older Hay-Moulton (Haystack) had not elected Latin as a subject, choosing Technical Drawing instead, which left Haybale, who found even the English language a sore trial, all at sea.

"He approached me," Haybale explained to Holmes eventually. "I'd never met him before, but I knew who he was. One day last week he sat by me after lunch in the junior refectory, I think he was on duty that day, and said that he heard I was having trouble with Latin, what with the exam coming up. He said he could offer me a study aid for two pounds, that would help me with the exam. I thought the price sounded reasonable, so I agreed. Everybody does it, don't you know. When I opened the envelope he gave me, I was surprised. It wasn't a study aid at all, it was a past exam paper, with all the answers filled in. I glanced through it, thinking it would be a hundred-to-one shot that the teacher would set the exact same exam as six years earlier, and just shoved it in my desk."

"When the exams papers were passed around, and I saw it was the identical paper, I couldn't believe my luck! I'm bollocks at Latin, so I thought that Fate had smiled on me for once. I wrote out the answers that I remembered from the sheets Moriarty gave me, and handed it in. I thought I'd get about 75 or 80 percent, you know, a passable score. I swear to you, Holmes, I did not look at the answer page after the real exams were distributed. But I did remember most of the answers from it."

"I believe you, old chap. How long before the Head gives you your marching orders?" Holmes asked.

"He said he would assess all the information, and give me his decision by five this evening. I'm a dead duck!"

"We must hurry, Watson, it is already half past two. Haybale, don't pack your bags just yet - Holmes is on the case!" The boy gave us a feeble smile before returning to his solitary misery. We raced out of the common room towards the main buildings.

"Holmes!" I gasped as we ran, "where are we going? How can we stop the Head from expelling Haybale?"

"I have an idea! Well, several, to be precise. But one in particular. Tell me, Watson, where are the back issues of the School magazine kept?"

"The Lamplight? Why, there's a copy of every issue ever printed in the bookcases in the Head's outer office. But this is surely no time to be reminiscing about the olden days, Sheridan?"

"Motive, Watson, motive!" Holmes explained as we ran through the corridors. "Ask yourself why Moriarty selected the younger Hay-Moulton boy out of all the possible boys he could have chosen! It coldn't have been for a meagre two pounds! And why did he apparently set him up to be exposed as a cheat when Haybale said he never met him before! I am sure the answers lie in something that happened a long time ago..."

"...when Jumbo's father was at school here, along with Mr Hay-Moulton, " Holmes whispered as we leafed through the pages of The Lamplight from several decades ago. "Aha! I have it, Jonny. Here is a picture of Haybale's father, in the sixth form, being awarded the Latin Prize. And look, on this page is Moriarty's dad, it looks like he is in the third form - probably a fag. The caption says 'Third Former mucking out stables'. I say, did there used to be horses here, Jonny?"

"Apparently," I replied. "I remember when I first came here, the boarding master we had then, a man as old as Methuselah, he used to gather us around in a circle before bedtime, and tell us horror stories about how things used to be at Diogenes. Cleaning up the horseshit was a punishment for...for..."

"Out with it, man!" Holmes cried.

"...cheating!" I whispered. Holmes, you've cracked it! All we have to do is take this magazine to the Head, and explain!" And so we did. At first, Mr Lestrade would hear none of it, even suggesting that Holmes and I had some sort of vendetta against Jumbo, but eventually he agreed that the evidence against Haybale was not overwhelming enough, benefit of the doubt, first offence and all that. We broke the news to Haybale, who immediately phoned his father. All was well!

1. Deep Third Man

The cricket season in England starts in late February, and runs through until the end of the school year. For those boys who are devoted to their cricket, the summer break is an awful inconvenience, cutting the season short. Still, it is the same for all schoolboys, high or low. There were, of course, a few boys who looked upon all forms of sport wirth utter disdain, and I have to admit that Holmes was one of these. Imagine my surprise when I heard in the junior refectory the latest gossip, that Holmes was turning out for cricket!

"It...it's true, then!" I gasped when I flung the door of our room open after class to find Holmes poking a box down the front of his briefs. (For my American readers, a 'box' is a batsman's protective equipment to cover his, er, equipment.)

"How do I look, Jonny?" he preened, turning this way and that, the box showing out a nice bulge in his underwear. Yes, Holmes actually preened! "I say, it must be jolly awkward if one should get a stiffie while wearing one of these things! I wonder how Jumbo manages to squeeze everything in!"

"What is the meaning of this, Sheridan?" I gasped when my voice returned. "You, of all people, who has always decried the futility of organised sports! You routinely pour scorn on the folly of rugger, the sheer pointlessness of athletics, and the tedium of cross-country! And now you are attempting to play cricket, which you frequently described as the perfect cure for insomnia, for players and spectators alike! I swear I shall never comprehend what goes on in that brain of yours!"

"Fear not, old chap, it is all for show. Allow me to explain. While you were at lunch, I was called away by the Sports Master, if you recall. Old Fenchurch sent me a note."

"I suppose he was going to bawl you out for not joining the swim team. You've the perfect physique for it, you know."

"Not a bit of it, old chap. Fenchurch did have a request to make, but it had nothing to do with swimming. It is our next case, Watson! And I have already agreed to assist!" He sat down on the bed, swinging his legs as he patted the space beside himself for me to sit likewise. "There is a crisis in the First Eleven, and the Sports master has gotten wind of it. He feels he cannot approach the Coach of the team, who is a former County player with a rather short fuse. What Fenchurch needs is a person who can go undercover inside the 1st XI and solve the problem from within."

"And what is the problem? Too many drawn games?" I asked drily.

"Ha ha, very funny. No, it is much more serious than that, Jonny. Fenchurch has uncovered some evidence of betting on the cricket matches the 1st XI plays. Apparently, the fix is in! And he suspects the culprits to be in the fifth form, right here at Diogenes!"

"Gambling on cricket? Here? I've never heard the likes of it, Holmes! Poor Lestrade must be tearing his hair out!"

"Well, he will be, when he hears about it. And Fenchurch will have no choice but to tell him, if he cannot find the source and cut out this scourge root and branch. I'm going to attend practice this afternoon at the nets, and keep my ears open."

"What can I do?" I asked, barely supressing my eagerness. I cared little for cricket, but a scandal like this would hurt the School's reputation, and I could not bear that.

"While I am at the nets, can you hang about the change rooms, in case someone lets some vital information slip?" he asked.

"What, loiter around while a dozen senior boys change their clothes and insert those ridiculous thiings into their underpants? Yes, I suppose one could be persuaded to do that!" I answered with a twinkle in my eye.

In point of fact, a student did not have to be a senior to be selected in the 1st XI, which is the highest level of cricket in an English School. If a boy excelled at cricket, he could be selected as early as third form, since cricket is not a game that relies entriely on brute strength, more a curious combination of guile and cunning (if one is a spin bowler), stamina (for a fast bowler) keen eyesight and co-ordination (for a batsman) and patience with a good eye (if a wicketkeeper). Cricket boasts that it has a place for everybody, and as such, Holmes was parachuted into the team by Fenchurch to be a specialist fielder (at deep third man) and lower order batsman, with the slim possibility of sending down an over or two of tweakers.

We departed for the cricket nets, which were situated at the back of the pavilion. The change rooms were underneath the pavilion, and spectators (during games) sat above. I took up my post on one of the benches in the dressing room, trying to think up some plausible reasons for being there, if challenged. "I'm waiting for Holmes" might work, or maybe "I want Jumbo to sign my bat for luck", even though I didn't actually have a bat with me. Yes, Jumbo Moriarty was the captain of the 1st XI. It seemed that every crisis Holmes and I had been involved with somehow had Jumbo at its epicentre, like the eye of an Atlantic storm, calm and serene while turmoil boiled all around.

Two fourth formers walked in. "Gosh, Hazeldean got you a beauty, didn't he," one said to the other, who promptly undid his trousers and pulled them and his underwear down to reveal a red mark turning purple high up on his left thigh.

"My word," the injured youth replied, gazing at the nascent bruise while I gazed slightly to the right at his handsome organ and hairy bollocks. "He seems to know the exact location of the unprotected spot between the thighpad and the batting pad, the rotter! I hope he bowls that quick against Winchester on Saturday"

Winchester! My father's alma mater! I confess I have not thought much about my parents, since having Holmes about. Oh, I have written to them once a week, as the house prefect requires, but the days of mooning over them every waking moment are a dim memory, now that I have my Sheridan. I studied the blank wall opposite me while the two fourth-formers continued into the shower area. Soon I heard the sound of running water, and wondered whether the bruised boy wanted me to wash his back, or perhaps his...

"Watson! Hssst! Watson!" I started out of my reverie to hear Holmes calling me from the door.

"What is it?" I whispered back.

"Three fifth-formers are headed your way. They just finished their bowling spells. Keep a sharp ear!"

Before I could reply, he disappeared, so I waited patiently. It was but a few moments before I heard the crunch of cricket boot on gravel, and three large boys swaggered in. I heard one refer to the middle of the three as "Hazey" , so I concluded this must be Hazeldean, the demon fast bowler. Ignoring me, the three boys began to undress, and I was afraid I would pass out as one by one their penises came into view, dangling and flopping about as the boys moved easily from change room to showers.

"Push off, you lot!" one of them called, to urge the two fourth formers to complete their showers and depart. The two who had already showered came back into the change room, towels drying off their hair, the rest of their bodies sparkling with dripping water which ran down their chests and off the end of their penises and buttocks in a most enchanting way. I felt it was time to make an exit, lest the cricketers begin to wonder why I was watching them wash. I met up with Holmes back in our room just before supper.

"So, Watson, what have you to report?" Holmes asked as we relaxed on our bed. Holmes had removed his cricket trousers and was laying back, hands behind head on pillow, as I lay alongside him and fondled his stiffening member.

"Quite a lot, really. It appears that the head of the penis can be red in colour, or a kind of light purple, or sometimes even an exotic shade of blue. And, the hair on one's head doesn't always match that of the pubic region - a blonde-haired boy can have black pubes, or they can be sort of auburn in hue."

Holmes looked at me with impatience. "I meant about the match-fixing. You know, cricket? Game played with bat and ball on a large field with players in white clothing?"

"Oh yes! Sorry! For a moment I thought you meant - nevermind. The three boys did talk among themselves about something, but I couldn't make any sense of it! One of them talked about how many no-balls he might get away with, the other about bowling a maiden over or two. The third fellow said something about keeping it quiet from Mr Big. I say, isn't that some kind of American gangster term?"

"I can think of one person the appellation 'Mr Big' might be ascribed to: Moriarty! Do you think it means that Moriarty doesn't know what his players are doing, right under his nose? Is it possible?" Holmes mused as I worked his erection slowly up and down. He sighed as I brought him off, then thanked me.

"How long do you think before we're making our own spooge,Sheridan?" I asked as Holmes returned the favour and started sucking on my bollocks.

"Grandfather suggested to me that as a result of careful observations, measurements and calculations he had made, he estimated that I would have my first wet one seventeen months, three weeks and two days after I started school. But he did caution that this was an approximation, not set in stone."

"Gosh, I wish I knew when my first one would be," I replied. "Keep doing that with your tongue, if you please, Sheridan, it's absolutely delicious! What do you think those boys meant about bowling maidens, and no-balls?"

"I read in the Times that some Indian cricketers had been banned from the game for lengthy periods for what they called 'spot-fixing' - that is, they did not exactly throw the match, which is difficult when you are only one among eleven players. What they did was to bowl a precise number of no-balls during their spell, so that some bookmaker in the know who was offering odds about the number of no-balls would be able to set the odds so as to maximise the number of losing bets."

"Sounds like a lots of balls to me!" I giggled, as Holmes finished his explanation and moved his mouth back to my erection. He cuddled my little bollocks in just the way I liked it, and when I started to moan he lifted my feet up onto his shoulders and gave me a thorough rogering! As he pushed and withdrew, I imagined it was Mr Carruthers doing it to me again. Then Mr Carruthers gave way in my imagination to be replaced by...Moriarty! Ever since hearing about his massive organ, I wondered what it would feel like in my bottom, ramming up further than any cock had gone before, stretching my hole to the point of tearing, filling my rectum with hot slimy juice..."

"Watson! Snap out of it! The supper gong has sounded!" Holmes was already dressed and starting towards the door while I lay panting, naked, aroused, on our bed. I giggled and jumped up to retrieve my clothes, which had fallen off the side of the bed.

"Coming Holmes!" I cried.

Holmes rose from the dining table before pudding to have a word with the prefect on duty, who was also a member of the 1st XI. I thought they were talking about the forthcoming match against Winchester, but when Holmes returned to his seat he told me quietly that he had let it be known that he was capable of being 'bought' - that for a small payment, he would drop a catch from a particular batsman if it came his way. He hoped, by this means, to find out who might be doing the 'buying'. We we not disappointed.

While we sat together at prep, in one of the classrooms, a fifth-former slowly walked past Holmes' desk, dropping him a note. Holmes could only see the back of this fellow, not his face. The note read "If the Winchester opener has fewer than 15 runs on the board, and hits you a catch, drop it". The fix was in!

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear and sunny, a typical English Spring day! After the usual amenities, I raced to the pavilion to secure my seat for the match against Winchester. I needn't have bothered. Since it was a Saturday, all the weekly boarders had gone home, and no day student would turn up to school on a weekend except under pain of death. All the boys who were interested in cricket were playing their own games on the smaller fields, so the pavilion seats were only occupied by a few visiting supporters, and local cricket tragics such as myself.

Moriarty had won the toss, and surprised everyone by sending Winchester in to bat first. The visiting openers strode to the wicket, shook hands, and the umpire (actually one of the parents) called "Play!". And that was the last I saw of the game, because no sooner had the opening bowler commenced his run-up than a familiar-looking man walked up the pavilion steps with a young blonde boy close behind him.

"Father!" I cried, waving my arms like a lunatic, "over here!"

"Good show, Jonny! The house prefect said you might be here. What ho, old bean? Is that really Sherlock's grandson out there at deep third man? Wait 'til I tell your mother!" Father sat next to me, and the boy sat on the other side of him. I could scarce belive my eyes!

"Father, you've...come to visit me! And...who is your, er, friend?" I asked, nodding towards the boy, who was by now watching the game with a look of utter puzzlement on his face.

"Ah, yes, my boy, well, this is, er, Dima. Dima, this is my son, Jonny," Father said, introducing us. I reached across Father to shake the boy's hand, which he did, vigorously.

"Please to meet you," he said, his light voice thickly accented.

"Dima is Ukrainian," Father explained to me. "Your mother and I are working there at the moment, near where the Russians are fighting. He has no family, and I didn't want to turn him over to the authorities because...well...I was afraid he might be, er, mistreated. So I smuggled him to England under the guise of visiting my old school's first match of the season. He, er, travelled as you, on your passport. We didn't have time to get him one for himself."

I was flabbergasted. I knew Father was a soft touch, Mother always said so, hers was the stern hand on the tiller, but to take such a huge risk! "What will you do with him?" I asked Father when Dima was distracted by the game in front of him.

"I have a friend in Harley Street, a doctor, who will adopt him, and bring him up as an English boy. The paperwork is all taken care of, all I had to do was get him into the country. Oh, good stroke!" he called out, pretending to be watching the game. "I wonder if you and the Holmes boy can, er, look after him for the day while I see to the final arrangements down in London. I'll be back tomorrow, Monday at the outside. Or Tuesday, if things get sticky."

I was speechless. I had barely gotten over the shock of seeing Father after several months of only letters, and now he was proposing that Sheridan and I smuggle some foreign boy - a rather good-looking foreign boy I might add - into the School and babysit him for an indefinite period of time for some unexplained purpose which had the whiff of...well, something underhand at the very least.

Father rose in his seat. "Oh, top shot old boy," he exclaimed as one of the Winchester batsmen cover drove the off- spinner to the boundary. "So, Jonny, can I rely on you? I'll be back before you know it." Without further formality, Father departed, leaving Dima with me. The boy moved over to sit next to me, and I must say his close presence was somewhat distracting. He was dressed as though to play cricket himself, in white shorts and white polo shirt, and unless he spoke he could indeed pass fpr an English boy, though his hair was a little long on the collar. I sat with him for the next few hours trying to explain the finer points of cricket, but I may as well have been speaking to an American, for all the good it did. For his part, Dima appeared to enjoy the game, hugging me every time a wicket fell, rubbing my inner thigh when a boundary was struck and generally making a very good first impression.

Holmes joined us at the lunch break and raised an eyebrow at my new friend. "It's complicated," I said, to forestall any awkward questions.

"You are comrade of Jonny?" Dima asked Sheridan, which made the other eyebrow rise.

"Indeed I am. How are things in Donetsk?" he replied, making the boy smile widely. The two of them rabbited on in some foreign tongue for a few minutes, making me feel a trifle left out. "Come on, Jonny, Twelfth Man has taken my position for a few hours so this might be a good time to get Dima up into our room without fuss," Sheridan finally said, so we made our way as discreetly as we could to the School, eventually to Baskerville wing.

"You have banya here?" Dima asked me in his broken English as we navigated the corridors to avoid the more populated parts of the School. I looked to Sheridan for a translation.

"A banya is a kind of public relaxation facility, similar to a Turkish bathhouse, where men (and boys) gather to sit around naked and bathe, shower, take saunas and generally enjoy each other's company. There are often massuers present for guests to get a rubdown, or the patrons do it for each other," Holmes explained. Dima nodded vigorously. "Sorry, Dima, no banya, but we can sit around naked in our room and take a shower?" Dima nodded enthusiastically again.

"I forgot to ask, Holmes, how is the case going?" I remarked.

"Almost solved, old boy. It's amazing what some people let slip when they think they are untouchable. I expect to have it all wrapped up for the Head by morning." We reached our room and Dima immediately jumped on our bed and pulled his shirt off, revealing a rather neglected physique by comparison to Holmes and myself. His shorts followed - he wore no underthings. Holmes shrugged his shoulders and said "When in Rome, old boy..." and followed suit. For a rarity, I was last to get undressed. I was surprised to see Dima become erect very quickly, and more surprised by the size of his pole when stiff: it was a good four inches, no hair, rather missile-shaped, I thought, with a nice set of balls tucked below. I was wondering what was Ukrainian for 'do you suck?', when Dima made the question moot by diving onto my cock. Holmes knelt behind him, hands on Dima's bottom, and I rather fancied I knew what was about to happen.

Anyone who thought Holmes would have been tired after running about the cricket field all morning did not know him as I did; he serviced Dima to that boy's moaned satisfaction, then raced off to the en-suite for a quick wash of his cock before rogering me on my back (my favourite position). While I had my feet up on Sheridan's shoulders, Dima swung a leg over my chest and fed me his cock and bollocks, his hands resting on the headboard for balance.

Holmes climaxed inside me (dry, of course) just before Dima climaxed in my mouth (also dry). The eastern European boy then surprised me by edging back down my body until his bottom hovered above my loins. He reached underneath himself and grasped my cock, pointing it at his own hole, then sat down. It was the most delightful feeling, but it was totally eclipsed by the next sensation when Dima began to bob up and down like a horseman on his mount. Holmes sat beside us as Dima 'rode' me like a cowboy, bringing my arousal to its conclusion before the bedsprings gave out!

We took Dima down to supper, the only person to take any notice being Woodcock. I explained to him that Dima was a distant cousin from overseas, and that my Father had sorted it all out with the Head already. I think that my association with Holmes had made me more adept at fabricating plausible scenarios! When we retired to bed (no prep on Saturdays) Dima was ready for more sex play. Naturally, as hosts, Holmes and I graciously acceded to our guest's desire.

We stayed awake late into the night, with the lights out (because of Woodcock doing the rounds), satisfying each others' sexual needs. There was one very strange thing that happened: at one point Dima turned me onto my front and spread my legs, whereupon I thought he wanted to roger me, but instead, he rubbed my back, then my bottom and thighs, and then he ran his tongue along my crack! I was appalled and thrilled in equal measure! That anybody would think of doing such a thing, or having it done to oneself! But that was merely the first course. He used his fingers to separate my cheeks and licked my hole! The feelings were euphoric! And when he pushed his tongue inside my hole, I thought my penis would burst from excitement as it pushed against the mattress!

Dima said afterwards that he did this only for his special friends back in Ukraine, and I felt humbled to be included in that select group. We slept a few hours until dawn, me lying in Holmes' arms, Dima behind me, hugging me, his still-hard tool resting in my crack.

The next morning Holmes untangled himself from us and showered. He said that he had a few loose ends to clear up before presenting his findings to Mr Lestrade. That gave me the opportunity to speak frankly with Dima. He said that his most enjoyable pasttime in his country was visiting the banya, and that he enjoyed sucking the cocks of his schoolmates who accompanied him. He enjoyed a variety of cocks, both hairy and bald, but he preferred the hairy ones because they could squirt semen. I was relieved and pleasantly surprised to find there existed another boy who enjoyed the taste and texture of spooge as much as I, as well as the sensation of having a cock in one's mouth. I had been wondering whether something was wrong with me, but here was this quite well-adjusted boy admitting freely that he liked having dick in his mouth, and liked it when that dick shot off its load!

We were fondling each other's erections as we spoke, and, in a fit of exuberance, I asked him whether he kissed any boys. Up until then, I had only been kissed by Holmes - even Mr Carruthers, whom I thought would surely be a kisser, did not take this path. But Dima said he loved to kiss, so we edged closer together, still pulling each other's cocks, and our lips met. I was glad Holmes had shown me what to do; before long I was moaning into Dima's mouth as I climaxed, my hips jerking forward. I kept rubbing Dima's missile until he too reached a happy conclusion. His penis is so beautifully formed, I guessed it would not be too long before he made his own emissions, and told him so. He smiled and said he was happy whether dry or wet. What a fine attitude!

We did not see Holmes until after breakfast, but word had already spread right around the refectory. Moriarty had been expelled! The Head had no choice, given that Jumbo was revealed (by Sheridan, of course) to be the ringleader of the betting cabal of fifth formers. They were his minions, doing his bidding, under his sway. I felt a pang of regret that I would never feel his elephantine organ pushing up into my hole, nor taste its emission (which I expected to be quite voluminous). Still, I have my Sheridan, and he has me.

We farewelled Dima that afternoon. A rather shady-looking character (who insisted he was a medical friend of my Father's) collected him from School just as the weekly boarders were returning. Although sad to leave us, Dima said he was looking forward to his new life with the man. I wished him well.

And that is the tale of my sixth year at Diogenes Hall. It is more a tale of Sheridan Holmes than anything, I was only ever a fringe player to his starring role. I look forward to First Form with eager anticipation.

end