Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Please note, this story contains elements of consensual D/s with a female domme. Proceed at your own discretion.

~ CONCERNING WOMEN WORTHY OF PRAISE ~

Holmes knows that he should have dismissed the book the moment he saw it.

While he may not be a good man he is a gentleman, and dismissing it is precisely what a gentleman would do.

What was it to him, after all, to realise that Hooper has a copy of Burton's newest and most scandalous work, The Perfumed Garden, in her possession? Why would he even note it when he saw it sticking out of her satchel one night as she headed out of the morgue and home to bed? Had he still been under the impression that the good doctor was male then he wouldn't even have thought to note it; men had urges and they satisfied them in whatever ways they saw fit-

But, of course, he thinks darkly, the rub is that he now knows Hooper isn't male, and he thus now knows just how rebellious an act it is for her to own that book, newly translated from the Arabic and said to be wholly salacious in its discussion of coital acts. In fact, it was said to be so incendiary that few would even admit to knowing what it was.

And there were few places in London where she could have gotten it, and even fewer where they would have sold it to her were she to ask for it dressed in the clothing of her own sex-

The thought causes an odd… tightening, in the region of Holmes' belly as he imagines her, flitting through Paternoster Square in her men's apparel, joking with those booksellers from whom she might buy such a work about why she might need it. How she might tell them about having a wife or a sweetheart who required she learn an extra trick or two, in order to keep their interest or expedite her own. As he imagines this, Holmes leans back in the seat of his hansom cab, fingers steepled before his chin, his mind wandering with possibilities… The image is surprisingly engaging…

He's so lost to his speculations that it takes him a moment to realise he's reached his destination at Baker Street and that he needs to get out now.

The cabbie taps the horse, causing it to give the hansom a jolt and Holmes takes the hint, hops out and pays his fare. It's snowing when he alights, an icy breeze ripping through the air and tugging at his clothes, his hair. It raises gooseflesh on his arms. The chill of it quietens that tightness in his belly and he shakes his head to himself. Tells himself to dismiss his discovery about Hooper. He has an evening of violin to look forward to, and then perhaps a pipe before he finally succumbs to his body's needs and allows himself to sleep…He hasn't slept since he revealed the nature of the Martins' deceit and he supposes he should rest after so diverting a case…

He's inside his rooms, Mrs. Hudson thankfully not having noticed his arrival, when he realises that he's still thinking about Hooper and that damn book of hers.

He can still picture it, poking innocently out of her bag as she bid he and Watson goodnight.

He grits his teeth at the realisation, annoyance at himself for not being able to control his thoughts making him irritable. He is, after all, being ridiculous; He shouldn't be thinking about Hooper of all people, being possession of a salacious book. It's not like she's the first person of his acquaintance to take an interest in erotica and other prurient literature, he tell himself. Watson's collection of books during his tenure at Baker Street had been far from suitable for public consumption.

So why is the thought of Hooper, dressed as a man and carrying salacious contraband, tugging at his attention like a dog on a leash?

Maybe, that big brain of yours is trying to tell you something, he hears Adler's voice lilt mockingly in his head.

As always he sees her in his mind, her mouth a slash of red, her pale body covered in nothing but her ill-gotten diamonds.

Again Holmes grits his teeth, in no humour to listen to The Woman play her games with him, even if she is a figment of his imagination-

Oh no, dear boy, he hears her say. It's not me you want to play games with…

And another image floods his mind, Hooper with her hair down and no moustache, still dressed in her men's clothes though her feet are bare.

Her shirt is unbuttoned to the valley between her breasts and Holmes can see that she's wearing neither shift nor corset, in fact her lovely skin is bare…

"Shut up," he hisses to himself, closing his eyes and attempting to dismiss the image.

He will not be made a slave to his baser desires; He is the world's only consulting detective, damnation, not some lust-addled, green boy-

But even as he tells himself this, he sees Hooper smiling. Coming towards him. She's pulling her braces down over her shoulders and slowly, slowly, unbuttoning her shirt. Unbuttoning her trousers. She steps out of them, showing him lovely, elegantly swelling hips. A pair of long, lean legs. She's only wearing her shirt now, all the buttons open, the two sides of the garment hanging over her breasts though it barely covers them. The flesh he can see beneath is creamy and smooth, the aureoles of her nipples outlined slightly beneath the fabric of the shirt-

"Enough!" And Holmes pulls his coat off, slams it onto the hook behind the door.

In high dudgeon now, he stalks into his room and pulls out his violin, begins running his way through a Paganini piece which he's been trying to master for weeks.

He swears to himself as he plays, forcing himself to concentrate on his musicianship, forcing himself not to think anymore about Hooper-

He goes to bed after a good two hours' practice, his fingers aching and his mind- he hopes- exhausted.

He falls into a troubles sleep, though when he wakes he can't remember what caused the turbulence of his dreams.

His thighs, however, are spattered with white.

The Perfumed Garden is an Arabic erotic treatise which was first translated into English by Sir Richard Burton in 1886. Burton's translation caused a massive stir in Victorian England though it is now regarded as exceptionally inaccurate and prurient. An accurate translation by Jim Colville has been available since 1999.