The remains of Sherlock Holmes dreamed sometimes, of a world where the pleading of the guilty did not pierce his heart, but fell to deaf ears as the bleating of hail stone upon armoured glass.

The infamous residue of the dextrous private detective, Sherlock Holmes, seated itself in his armchair, slippered feet outstretched before his crackling fire. Upon his lap, coveted within a pair of hands together with their thin, lengthy fingers, was a plain wooden box. As the belladonna bloom, its surface simplicity was feeble ... a temporary guise for the stimulating horrors lying dormant within. Scratch that false veneer of a coffer and the truth came oozing out, in the bearing of a syringe, and of cocaine and morphine, in their gaudy, lymphatic solutions.
The elegant individual had been opening and closing it for the past half hour until it began to drive him insane. He knew adamantly that his only true companion, John Watson, thoroughly disapproved of its artificial stimulation, of those substances which could be the ruination of the fine mind which rested behind the dapper sleuth's prepossessing looks.

The silence and tedium was consuming the man in a heady fog of urgency. He felt it, and it pained him insufferably.

It had been two weeks since his last case, of which had proved an effortless affair, and had awakened little of his adroit interest, and now, without even the comforting presence of the Doctor, Sherlock found his resolve eroding to its inner wick.

Perhaps he would visit the theatre…

Still, he was conscious enough, even in his somnolent daze, that a theatre-visit would be just the start of it – after that there would ensue an endless series of minor dramas and excursions, all of them arranged with the sole purpose of giving him something to occupy his keen and penetrating mind until the next case came along – however, if that case was slow in arriving, the detective knew from bitter experience that his slow slide into a stupor of self-destructiveness from which he would not emerge straightforwardly... that he and his familiar acquaintances, morphine and cocaine would become intimately reacquainted on a daily basis – something of which he, again, knew that Watson disapproved of.

Sherlock sighed, fingers dabbling purposelessly in the confines of his wooden chest. Boredom did him no good at all… and if there was no case to keep him stimulated then, without doubt, he must endeavour to occupy that shining mind in some other way. However sordid the means.

Pausing, he lifted himself from his cushioned wine armchair, and sauntered over to a gargantuan litter of footnotes which made up the covering of his ornate breakfast table, and rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing jadedly over the dates, titles and empty wording which made up the headlines of the previous week, in vain hopes of discovering something that he may have overlooked.
Finally, he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and scoured its innards as a crow upon a scavenged hare, until his eyes dwindled from its monotony, to the windowpane before him. A sharp frost had set over the winter laboured city of London, and the window frames were thick with the effortless beauty of the hoarfrost crystals. They hung heavy over the fogged panes, encasing the harmonious, unsullied white of the cobble-road which lay sleeping before the lofty red homesteads of Bakerstreet.

He rose from the table, and lit his pipe. His dark eyes, with their hawk-like precision, stared into the barren street below.
To company the winter frost, a balmy fog had set on; and as a result, the entirety of the cobblestone roads leading away from Bakerstreet were decidedly inscrutable; even under the keen stare of the esteemed Sherlock Holmes.
Seeing his battles against ennui would only weaken if he were to regard oblivion with such interest, the detective turned to retreat to his armchair, until movement within the lane below made him pause. The gentleman's lips pursed shortly at the stem of his pipe, as he noted a figure emerging from the breast of the fog.

The figure took dainty strides, and if another was to regard the form, their resolutions would end with the assumption that the stranger was a woman – however, to Sherlock Holmes, there was a certain conviction to the person's stride, a distinct and confident swagger… which suggested a man.

And also; it seemed that this bemusing new arrival was acutely familiar, and had gone to great lengths to guise their appearance with unflattering layers of cloth and old tweed.
Holmes plucked the root of his pipe from his lips, about turned, and patted out its smoldering innards into the waiting fireplace, which crackled gaily as it feasted upon the remains of tobacco weed.

"Perhaps today will not prove as uneventful as I had expected," he ventured to himself, as he made to the door of his study.

Surely enough, the detective's assumption had proved true, as below stairs the door resounded with a feeble rapping.
Mrs. Hudson, as she was at her just liberty to do so, had retired to the country to visit family for the duration of the Christmas season. The dear woman had been undoubtedly ecstatic at the prospect of spending time in the country, and was puzzled by Sherlock's unrequited sentiment. The countryside had always filled him with a certain horror. It was, to his belief, that upon his experience, the lowest and vilest alleys of London did not present a more dreadful account of sin than did in the smiling and beautiful country.

Strutting elegantly down the lofty stairwell which led to the little corridor sporting the Upper 221B Bakerstreet doorway entrance, Holmes prized open the mahogany frame slowly, his left hand resting liberally in his waistcoat pocket.

The individual was undoubtedly startled to see that Holmes himself had answered the hushed call, before immediately lowering their gaze to the hoarfrost beneath their terribly grubby and worn leather boots.

Regarding the being with the shortest, but most purposeful of glances, the auburn-haired detective said at last, "Good afternoon."

"I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but is this the home of Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I have a matter to discuss with him," the 'swollen' individual uttered shrilly. The tone of voice was muffled by the scarf which was so tautly secured about their throat and mouth, and their breath blew out into a bloated cloud of ashen smoke, like the afterbirth of a pistol shot.

Sherlock smiled softly at the excitability to which the hasty question was posed,

"Undoubtedly so! You've in some luck – I am he. Pray, do come in."

With that, the detective ushered his visitor into the comely warmth of the hall, and upon closing the door to the cruel ferocity of the street, he beckoned his guest to follow him to his landing flat.

"We had better discuss your matter in a cosy room rather than on a windswept pavement, I should think, without frost on our ears."

The individual did not contribute to the chatter of the consulting detective, rather, stared after him with a desperate look of forlorn anticipation.

Within moments, the two were enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock Holmes' sitting room, and with a brisk flourish, the detective closed the door behind his visitor.

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as they filed into the room. Casting a knowing gaze towards this 'stranger', his eyes flashed with a sudden mischief and attentiveness which was so distinctive of him once he had deciphered the solution of an ambiguity, "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. Pray, take off your coat… you will never feel the benefit if you are to keep it on."

The individual was taken aback by this, though nothing had they said would reveal so, nevertheless, the high, thin breathing of Holmes' new companion, and the clasping and unclasping of their hands spoke of the nervous tension within.

Sherlock moved from his position at the fireside, to tower over the slighter figure, his eyes penetrated the darkness beneath his stranger's cap, noting the pastel-light tresses, and fearful blue eyes, "Come now, Mr. Ryder. Do take off that silly guise."

The individual uttered a startled gasp, and turned away from the all-knowing gaze of the handsome consulting detective.

With a nod, Holmes about turned to his armchair beside the fire, and sat. With a motion of a lengthy, graceful hand, he gestured to the wrought wooden seat adjacent to him, "Pray, take the basket chair, and do tell me of the matter you should like to settle with me."

For a long while, the visitor did not move, but simply stood staring at the flooring. As if the mere piercing accusations of Holmes had turned him to stone. As the damning eyes of Medusa upon her willing victim, bound by love.

Finally, fingerless gloves found themselves joining a mound of worn garments, as the creature peeled them from their body. Finally, the shapeless form surrendered to a slim, elegant vision, and, finally tossing a russet brown cap into the mingle of cloth; the stranger stood before Holmes, a stranger no longer.

The visitor was a young man, plainly but neatly dressed, his sky-blue eyes inviting, but lost of their customary flair, and the soft blonde tresses which curled about attractive, though pallid cheeks lay haphazard, as the cap tore at it.

He moved forward hesitantly, and perched himself on the very edge of the basket chair, however, after noting the closeness between himself and Holmes, he retreated back into the chairs ample feathered pillows, like a oyster to its shell.

His eyes lifted cautiously, to seek Sherlock's, in search of a question, or a pardon to speak. The detective merely stared in his direction with half-lidded eyes, having retained the comfort of his clay pipe. The atmosphere would seem kindly and welcoming to the common bystander, but within James Ryder's mind, the tension was as thick as the evening fog on the London docks.

Finally, a cord seemed to have been plucked within the striking young man, for he straightened rigidly in his chair, and began to speak with such an urgency that Holmes recollected the fact that he had been acquainted with such vigour beforehand in a number of cases when lives were at risk,

"You will excuse my troubling you, Sir, I am sure, for you haven't shown me the door just yet, as I thought you would, but I'm in a terrible fix!"

Holmes replied with a single, languid nod of his head.

Ryder swallowed shakily, his eyes wide and glassy with unease, but he pressed on, "I'm awfully sorry to bother you; I don't expect that you should be glad to see me, but I haven't been myself lately, Mr. Holmes… not since I last saw you…"

The detective was favorably impressed by the manner and speech of the lad. He had not recollected the young man's manners as being so gentle and so resolute when he had first saw him, when Holmes had accused the young man of the blue carbuncle theft, and proved just in doing so. The older man looked over the younger in his searching fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his fingertips pressed together, to listen to the young man's story, "I shall be happy to do listen to your qualms, Mr. Ryder. Despite my express appeal for you never to return here."

"Oh, Sir! I do not mean to go against you! Heaven bless you, I'm sorry, but, I haven't been able to sleep well for months now…" The blonde man voiced shrilly, fingers kneading into his thick cotton trousers. He regarded Holmes with a look of inquest, before continuing, eyes at his hands, "I just can't stop thinking about what I did… can't stop thinking about what I risked… how I threw Mr. Horner into such a horrible position! I can't stop thinking about it, Sir!"

Sherlock Holmes sat; fixed attentively on his guest's exclamation of woe, yet nothing did he say to reconcile the flaxen-haired youth.

The young man drew up his hands, uncoiled and drew his scarf from his throat into his lap, "I could've had that man dead, Mr. Holmes. I could've taken that man's life, had you not found the fowl for which I sold my character… I could've killed a man."

James Ryder was a tender soul, if not a dangerously careless one. Holmes paid rare heed to sentiment, let alone to reconcile a common thief, however, he could not find himself denying the young man before him, "Not at all. You risked his imprisonment, and that alone."

"But, Sir! He was a convicted man before! They would've put him away for life!" Ryder's voice quaked within his throat, as his shoulders rose in his affliction, "You set me free, Sir… but in doing so, you've trapped me. I can't forgive myself for what I did, and nor will God…"

Sad blue eyes traveled the course of the maroon carpeting, to the dark inexplicable ones of the other,

"I sit before you I damned man, Mr. Holmes."

For a long moment, the detective simply sat, puffing buoyantly on his pipe, before an unalloyed resolution was met to a blind eye. Holmes upturned his earthy pipe to the blaze once more, patting out its baked ashes, as he rose from his lounger, and stood beside it.

"Forgive me, Mr. Ryder, but for all my skills and undertakings, I cannot find myself concerned with the promise of religion."

Swiftly, the bright-eyed youth rose to his feet, seeing that his appeal was being shouldered "Still, Mr. Holmes, I should be severely punished for what I have done! I implore you to bring me to justice with your police acquaintances, for I may run out of nerve if I were to do so myself."

Sherlock paused, and stared steadfastly into those sincere blue eyes, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. However, in withholding you from them, I have myself committed a felony. It is impossible for my doing anything of the sort lest I seem as an accessory to your wrongdoing."

It was a genuine truth: the detective had indeed committed a felony; however, it was just possible that in doing so he had saved a soul. This pretty young fellow would not go wrong again; for he was too terribly frightened. Sending the boy to prison now would only make him a jailbird for life. Chance had put in his way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution was its own reward. It was, after all, the season of forgiveness.

Nonetheless, Ryder was not able to commit himself to the festivities of the holiday, and would, within himself, rot into a stone of emptiness and despair, if his conscience were not set to rights. Holmes could deduce from the many bruises and dirtied fingernails that the boy had withdrawn from his occupation at the hotel to dwell in a more taxing workplace. Perhaps it was Ryder's way of punishing himself for his unfortunate clash with larceny, working himself to the bone for a third of his already ailing wages.

Regarding the bowed head below him, Sherlock Holmes shook his head gravely. This could not be left to go on.

"Very well, Mr. Ryder." Holmes said, recovering the entirety of his assurance as he stood before the grief-stricken young blonde, hands cupped behind his back, "I am afraid that there is very little that I can do in regards to bringing Scotland Yard in on the matter."

Ryder sighed miserably, readying himself to gather his belongings, and return to his remorse and guilt-ridden being, "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Sir. I'll just le—

Ryder was cut short from his goodbyes. Holmes had seized him lightly by the wrist, and guided him to return as he continued on with his statement, "The law cannot, as they say, touch you, yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more."

Releasing his charge, the detective moved to take swift steps towards the ornate varnished mantelpiece, "I confess that it is not part of my duties towards my clients, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I may be able to help you."

Weaving his lengthy digits about the leathered hunting crop, Holmes turned to Ryder, whose eyes were saucered, fixated upon the implements wicked exterior.

"S-Sir…what do you intend to do with that?" James stuttered, and instinctively arched away as Holmes raised it for inspection.

"Surely you are familiar with the procedures of traditional education, Mr. Ryder?" Holmes posed skeptically, "And if you are not, it seems that we have found a potential 'raison d'être' which has led you up to this mess."

"But… I…!" The young man sputtered, skirting backwards at each advancing step of the whip-wielding detective, "I haven't taken a hiding since I was 12, Sir! It's not a proper…it's not what'll fix me!"

Sherlock Holmes halted in his tracks, regarding the frightened lad for an instant, before placing the wicked implement on his side-table, to join his disordered clutter of papers, and casing trinkets.

"It seems, my dear fellow, that you seem to know all what is not best for you, though nothing of what is fitting," Holmes rested his palms at his hips, and stared coolly from those enigmatic dark eyes, probing deep into the simple sky-blue of Ryder's.

"To my experience and understanding, there are few punishments that make such a lasting impression than the cane, without skirting into realms of torture...and I believe that these circumstances warrant its unique talent, don't you think?"

James could think of many rational objections, of a number of dubious protests, but he found himself and his protestation waning, and wrapped in a bracing blanket of his own nostalgia. He was terribly ashamed, as he had been when he had last bent over, backside in the air, awaiting the descent of his father's cane… and the mortification was resounded with the fact that the unpleasant incident was to be repeated again, seven years later, for nobody's fault but his own.

Despite this, the prospect of a schoolboy's comeuppance for his offenses proved too great an injury to his already indignant character.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm… I'm nineteen years old, Sir. I… I'm too old for it!"

Holmes did little but smile gently, standing his ground, "I do not deny that, my dear boy… however, I also cannot deny that your actions have merited you a sound thrashing."

James stared at Holmes, the contest for dominance in theory was deliberated in some exigency, however, the young blonde soon allowed his lids to pass over his light eyes, to gaze at the floor beneath his feet, "…You're right, Sir."
"There's a good chap," Sherlock said, unfazed by the other's unalloyed acceptance, as he drew back, and away from Ryder, to make a hasty assessment of the living room.

James stared after the adept and graceful gentleman, fingertips circling the core of his topmost shirt button. He felt ice surge within his abdomen, becoming a tempest of unrivaled proportions, as his penalty grew ever closer, as though it were akin to the Grim Reaper having set up camp on his doorstep.
With a nod, the detective outlined his commands in a fashion so casually conveyed that James could not help but feel somewhat afraid at the prospects of what was to come to him, or rather, to his hind flesh. There was a certain airiness of manner, a ceremonial approach in Holmes' explanation that fueled the storm within his gut to a fearsome level of horror.

"Now, if you would be so kind," Holmes informed, reaching for the hunting crop, "Please lean over the arm of the sofa. I assure you that it is supple enough to provide you some comfort during this little session."
Gulping, James took three steps to the sofas side, and prepared to lean over the arch, before an exclamation suggestive of reproach made him jump out of his skin.

Glancing over his shoulder, James questioned the consulting detective timorously, with a wavering, "…Sir?"

"Come, come, now, Mr. Ryder," Sherlock admonished softly, tapping the riding crop to his thigh, "The circumstances call for an air of precision. Be kind enough to lower your breeches and undergarments, if you please."

The explicit requirement of his fate made the blonde tremble, his hands pressed as delicate shields over his gingerly clothed bottom.

"Oh, Sir! I've never had it on the bare before!" he whined stridently in appeal.

Holmes nodded, seeming to consider the attractive young man's pleas in some depth, "I see… perhaps I am proving too severe," patting the riding crop against his hand thoughtfully, he soon shook his head, "Forgive me, Mr. Ryder, but as is plainly evident, your previous punishments have proved far too lenient. Had they been swooping and firm, you may have avoided your little encounter with the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle."

James' heart sank into his slender belly, as he stared up from his less than savory position over the settee arm, "Sir… I'm sorry, Sir."

Bracing himself up, the blonde's dainty fingers made little work of unbuttoning the bracket of his dark leggings. Vigilantly and unhappily did he shoulder out of the confines of his trouser hip-braces, allowing them to fall from the diminutive round curves of his shoulder blades, to hang over his waist.

With a sigh, the boy turned his back to the pure intimidation of Sherlock Holmes as the detective swung the switching implement through the air experimentally.

His ears ringing with the excruciating hum of the hunting crop as it tumbled and severed through the air, James could not deter the profound blush which stole his habitually pallid façade as his fingers, with the lip of his trousers, snaked over the round under curve of his backside, to rest at his knees.

The hem of the young man's shirt lay past his exposed bottom, as its entire length had been unsheathed, which bestowed upon the blonde a vague confidence, as he inhaled deeply, before laying himself over the sofas edge.

Behind his unmoving form, Holmes strove over to his charge's side. The handsome detective's left hand reached out, and nonchalantly flipped up the hem of James' undershirt which veiled his naked backside. The young blonde responded with a shamefaced cry, and pillowed his head in his arms. He could only mourn the sight of himself, body laying, trembling upon a high-armed sofa… bare-bottom upturned to face a sound thrashing from his would-be arrestor. His face burned heartily, and he felt tears rise to the brim of his profusely lashed eyes, from both fear and mortification, but most of all, for the grief and torment which he may have inflicted upon innocents when he stole that blasted blue stone.

"Now, Ryder, let me see how bravely you can take a flogging," Holmes announced, before he set himself into position, his right toe to his left heel, as he rose his outstretched arm with its graceful wrist to the height of his shoulder.

Though the young blonde's eyes were closed to the ferocity of the riding crops descent, James was very aware of its narrow hiss as it fell. He attempted to brace himself for its nip.

Nothing, however, prepared him for the concentrated sting that claimed him as the fine elasticity of Holmes' crop cut mercilessly into the soft flesh of his naked bottom.

It took James a few moments to register the pain, for it bit hard, froze, and melted into the fleshy muscle of his behind, creating a subdued pause before a hot, fiery brand blazed like flames across the pale flesh of his backside.

The boy released an aggrieved whimper.

Behind him, Sherlock Holmes tapped the length of his crop against his ankle, gazing at the hapless boy's bottom in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. The first brand was as important as the last. The intensity of the blows were not to lose or gain any vigour from beginning to the end. They were to be calm and calculated, deliberate and methodical, to ensure James Ryder that he was in the most rational care, and not merely under the control of a blinded tyrant, thrashing a stick every which way with uneven force or feeling.

Once again, the handsome detective stepped into the swing of his hunting crop, and once again its leathered length raised a red stripe across the fair young man's bottom which perched upon Holmes' sofa arm.
James took in a sharp intake of breath, his eyes burning beneath his eyelids. It hurt so terribly! That horrible crop rose and fell with such a dreadful hiss and crack that it seemed as though his skin were being shredded to ribbons as it imprinted itself into his bare bottom. Not only did it seem, but it felt so.

By the fifth stroke, the blonde tossed up his head, and groaned in agony as the lashes across his backside raced through his body, freezing and boiling to the heart of his chest.

After each devastating stroke, there came a brief pause, as Holmes allowed the fresh cut to break through every other, allowing his dear Ryder to feel the very extent of each before raining another. The sleuth's dark eyes were half-lidded, focused, but oddly, so terribly distant as his wrist flexed and his feet stepped in to contribute to the force of each blow to the crossed pinkening bottom before him.

As the twelfth stroke fell and connected mightily with the sensitive under curve of the young man's buttocks, his striking blue eyes opened jadedly, and his palms pressed upon the surface of the consulting detective's sofa cushions, raising his back in the line of his wounded bottom.
"Please…!" he whispered heartily, his toes drumming against the carpet as he fought to swallow the concrete lump which claimed his throat, and of which was the cause of his dry breathlessness.

Holmes paused for a scant moment, before the cane was raised to shoulder, and again cut amply through the air, landing fully on its firm target, initiating an explosion of pain across the breadth of each smooth buttock.
With a shrill cry, Ryder pressed out a hand to shield his heavily crossed bottom, for the first time ceasing the wicked crop's descent as Sherlock Holmes stepped back from his station, and cupped his hands with their lengthy digits to the small of his back.

"Please remove your hand," said Holmes in his particularly 'matter-of-fact' manner, "it would be very unfortunate if I shall have to whip your fingers in your bottoms' stead."

Turning a pleading glance over his shoulder, Ryder gulped back the tears which threatened to course his cheeks, "Sir, I…it hurts so awful, I… I can't take any more… p-please… surely that's the end of it?"

Closing his eyes, and then opening them to further inspect the lashes which claimed the entirety of his charge's backside, Holmes shook his head, "Have you forgotten why you are here, my dear boy?"

At James' silence, the older man walked slowly to the other's side, and regarded the blonde searchingly, though sternly, "It is all very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of that poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

It was enough to make the sensitive boy's heart break, for James braced for a moment in stunned silence, and then suddenly began to sob quietly, turning away from Holmes' view as he removed his hand from his beaten rear to veil his weeping eyes.

At this, Holmes nodded, and his expression softened somewhat. He rested a hand upon the feather-soft flaxen tresses of his charge, and assured gently, "This is your punishment – it will be over soon, and then you will be absolved."
At the sniff and trembling nod of his pretty charge, the detective returned swiftly to his position, and after a brief tap across the boy's bottom, Holmes swung the crop vehemently as before to anchor that emotion in James' psyche, to which the boy threw back his head and gave a moan of pain. Holmes felt a pang of sympathy from the distant world of his heart, as he observed beyond the reddened mounds of the boy's hind flesh, those quaking shoulders, and the sensual image of Ryder; his eyes closed, his head flung back, the full-bodied blond hair flopping onto his forehead, darkening ever so slightly as it became damp against the blushing skin.

The sentiment was soon dismissed, as Holmes cracked his hunting crop across the shivering flesh of James' bare bottom, noting logically the distance that the thin switch endured as it embedded itself in the soft muscle, and the speed at which it sprung away, only to return seconds later, with another firm lash, and yet another desperate, rippling sob emitted from poor James Ryder, as he battled against the biting sting which it inflicted.

With a final loll of his wrist, Holmes swung the wicked hunting crop one last time, with a singular note to himself of the number which he had counted, and ceased. Despite this, and perhaps unaware of it, the young man remained in his position, heels planted firmly on the floor, hands fisted into the raw silk which laced the sofa pillows beneath his head… willing to take more strokes if Holmes were to deem them necessary. Tossing the crop to the floor, the handsome detective moved languidly to the blonde's side, placing a hand on the small of the lad's back, drawing him up shakily, guiding the boy with his liberal hand on his arm.

James slumped to a crouch, though soon drew himself up with his free hand setting his closed to rights. He breathed a soft hiss as the cotton material of his undergarments scathed the pulsating flesh of his thoroughly whipped behind, and a whimper as he recalled that Sherlock Holmes was there to witness his humiliation, not only to witness, but to play a significant part in it.
Ryder bit his lip, dabbing his eyes furiously with the sleeve of his dress shirt, unable to face the elegant, attractive detective who towered before him.

"You took that very well." Holmes stated sultrily. Ryder blinked, and glanced sadly up at the dark-eyed consulting detective, and blushed more intensely as he detected a shadow of a smile upon the older man's handsome features.

"You have done yourself proud… and I should hope that this session was sufficient enough to permit yourself your own forgiveness?"

There was something within the dark-tressed man's gentle assurance, something within the man's eyes the broke a nerve within James Ryder's resolve, for his tears threatened him once more. James smiled apologetically, lacing a finger beneath they to soak away their imcriminating evidence, "Thank you, I…I'm sorry. I don't know what's coming over me!"

The eyelids half fell over Sherlock's eyes, and he smiled in understanding, his elegant arms beckoning the sobbing blonde to his embrace.

As James faltered, Holmes took the younger man wordlessly into his arms, and simply allowed the blonde to sob into his chest, Ryder's palms cupping his shoulder blades as he whispered his accountable remorse into the detective's neck, and, as Holmes dismissed reservedly, the boy departed Bakerstreet that afternoon with a pardon to return whenever the detective could accommodate him, an impish smile gracing his lips, and those soft blue eyes glassy still with the broken dam of his shed tears.

The End