Sherlock Holmes fic: Everything in Time
Title: Everything in Time
Author: aviss
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~4.000
Summary: There is something in the Punchbowl Pit which interests Watson more than the fights.
Author Notes: This if for yetanothermask who got me in the help_chile auction. I hope this is to your liking.
Everything in Time
Watson can feel something different in the Punchbowl Pit the moment he steps inside, though he's hard pressed to say exactly what. It sounds and smells the same, the disgusting mixture of sweat and alcohol and sickness and desperation which make him wonder why he's unable to stay away from that god forsaken hellhole.
He's tried; ever since he came back from Afghanistan, he's tried to stay away from unsavoury places like that. He can ill afford to lose money he's not currently earning, after all.
Tonight the crowd is louder and worse tempered than usual, their jeers reaching fevered pitch as the fighting in the ring progresses. There is an air of restlessness and barely contained anger in the place. His curiosity piqued, Watson pushes through he crowd, earning a few disgruntled curses and sharp looks from the men he passes by.
And then he's there, looking at the ring and feeling his eyebrows shot up his forehead.
Two men are exchanging blows, as per usual. One is a big lumbering chap, his head bald and his face badly scarred. He has hands the size of the other man's head and his skin is glistening with sweat. He's smiling nastily, shouting as the other fellow scurries around the right.
He's not the one Watson's interested in, though.
The other man is slight and wiry, though by no means small he appears diminished next to the brute he's facing. His bared torso is also slick with sweat and showing a few fading bruises. He's grinning, as if he's having the time of his life, and running around the ring. He darts from one side to the other, using his speed to get close to his opponent and land quick blows on him. It's easy to see those hits are nothing more than stings for the huge man, though they are irritating him. The smaller man grins as he lands an open handed slap on the other's face, retreating to a safe distance quickly.
Their strengths are not matched, and fighting in that way it's a miracle the man is still standing. There is something in his eyes, though, which makes Watson reconsider the scene. Those eyes are clear and calculating, moving around quickly as if he can see what the next move is going to be and is anticipating it.
He's going to win, Watson realizes suddenly. Insane as the thought is, the big fellow has no chance against him.
He makes his way back quickly and places a bet for the smaller man, returning to his previous spot to watch the conclusion of the match.
Nothing happens for a minute, the same dance being danced by both men until the big one lunges forward with a mighty cry, swinging huge fists blindly. The other ducks, still grinning, and lands two precise hits which make his opponent stumble backwards before he regains his balance and attacks again. The crowd is shouting, excited, leaning forward as if they can feel the conclusion of the fight at hand. Watson also does, his hands resting on the wooden planks surrounding the boxers, his eyes never leaving the smaller man.
The man moves with a feline grace, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles and those uncanny grey eyes sharp and alert. Watson is riveted. He watches, observing the way he sidesteps avoiding a punch, the play of the muscles in his back as he launches a swift counter attack, his fists fast and precise, the way his spine bends when he finally knocks the big one with a hard elbow to the neck. Watson is left there, gaping, as the crowd erupts around him and the man departs from the ring without looking back.
It takes him a couple of minutes to recover himself enough to collect his winnings, his mind replaying the moves in slow motion. He leaves the Punchbowl shortly after that, the fights taking place now uninteresting after the one he's just witnessed.
…
Watson is not surprised to find himself searching for that man the next time he goes to the Punchbowl.
Before, he'd manage to stay away from that place maybe for a fortnight. It's been barely three nights since that day and he's back, and he's not even going to pretend to be there for any reason except to see that fellow.
Watson knows there is nothing sustaining the assumption that the man is a regular, and yet he felt it in the air, in the voices of the patrons. He wasn't just passing by, and Watson hopes to see him again.
It has not left his mind for the past three days, and where before he had patients and a healthy life to keep him away from his most unsavoury vices, now he just has an army pension and long, empty days filled with ennui. It's not surprising he goes back to the first thing to stir his interest in what feels like ages.
"That'd be William; odd fellow that one, comes and goes as he pleases," one of the bookies says after Watson inquires about the man, his pockets already empty from the night's losses. "What's your interest in him?" he looks at Watson mistrustfully for an instant, his brows furrowing menacingly.
Watson's deliberately vague reply about seeing him fight once doesn't clear the expression and the bookie clams up. He leaves a few minutes later, the brutes beating each other in the ring not enough to hold his interest without the incentive of a gamble.
…
It's not until a fortnight later that Watson sees the man again.
The frequent visits to the Punchbowl have left a huge dent in his resources, and Watson fears tonight might be his last visit for a while. Maybe he will be better served forgetting about the chap; he doesn't know him, after all, and it puzzles him the fact that he left such an impression after seeing him just once.
Watson's considering leaving when the last match ends. He's been lucky tonight, and his pockets are not yet completely empty. He's going to need the money for food and other necessities during the week; it would be wise to stop gambling while he's still ahead.
Watson sees the man as he's turning to leave and stops dead in his tracks. The noise around him increases as do the jeers and insults, and Watson narrows his eyes as he takes in the fighters. This time is not a huge brute the one this William's facing, but a slight young man with a determined expression. Both of them are shirtless, and from his position is easy to appreciate the sinewy strength of their bodies. It looks like an interesting one.
It's still in the first stages when Watson realizes William is going to win, and without breaking a sweat. The other chap is light on his feet and very, very fast. He's not very big, though, and his hits lack the weight to fell someone so deceptively strong as William. Watson retreats for an instant and places his bet, risking all his remaining money in a hunch.
He would wonder, in any other circumstance, what is that gave him the certainty. This time, though, he knows; it's the eyes. Watson takes his place at the front of the ring and observes the proceeding, his eyes never leaving William's. They appear cold and calculating, shinning with wry amusement. At some point, Watson has the impression William takes his eyes from his opponent, just for an instant, to lock with his. It might just be his imagination, but he sees his lips curling in a smile before he delivers the finishing blows.
As before, William leaves the ring without looking back, and Watson watches his retreating back until he too collects his winning and goes home.
It's not until he's ensconced in his room in the hotel that Watson realizes the trill of the night has not completely left him, and a part of his anatomy which had been quiescent since his injury seems to be functioning again. It's not as surprising as it should be that it has awoken tonight, and it's William's svelte but strong body he pictures in his mind as he takes himself in hand for the first time since the War.
…
Watson misses William the next few times he's in the Punchbowl, his visits short and unsatisfying. His dwindling funds don't allow him to linger in the place for long, and twice he considers stopping altogether for a while.
And yet, he keeps going at least a couple of times a week.
Once he catches a glimpse of William's back as he leaves the ring, hair plastered to his skull and smooth skin slick with sweat and Watson turns around and leaves immediately, the sudden ache in his loins strange and at the same time expected.
That night Watson pictures that same back bent under him as he strokes himself to completion.
…
The next time Watson sees him there is something different about William.
He has learned not to anticipate seeing the man, since it appears most of the patrons, and there are more regulars there than Watson would have imagined, don't know or are unwilling to talk about him. Aside from learning this and losing his money, Watson has achieved little since the last time.
It's not that he's obsessed with that man, he's just interested. And since there's been so little of interest for him since his return he's loath to forget about this.
It's not helping his finances one bit, that's for sure, but Watson knows enough about himself to know that'd be the case even without William.
And besides, William seems to be a sure bet, so maybe he is helping his finances.
But tonight--tonight Watson looks at him closely the moment he steps into the ring, and a frown mars his features. William's eyes are not the sharp and clear grey he saw the first times; they are clouded, pupils blown so they appear almost black from that distance, and he's holding himself stiffly. Watson sees him stumble a couple of steps, keeping his balance just barely and reaching out to hold the wooden ring. The crowd laughs merrily at the sight, entertained.
He's drunk, Watson realizes after a second. Drunk or drugged.
This deduction is confirmed the moment his opponent enters the ring and William laughs loudly at the sight of him. It's a big chap, not huge but broad shouldered and with bulging arms and a scowl nothing short of menacing. William says something, his speech too slurred for the words to register, and the other man lunges at him without preamble.
The man is big, but he's also fast, and he delivers a kick which knocks William on his arse. It takes him a few seconds to recover, climbing unsteadily to his feet and resting against the planks to catch his breath. Watson feels the impulse to shout at him, berate him for participating in the match in such a state.
Watson should go and place the usual bet only this time against William, but he's unable to. It doesn't feel right for some reason.
Knowing it's foolish, Watson uses his last funds to back William and goes back to watch.
He curses himself for his misplaced faith in a stranger, seeing William being tossed around the ring by his opponent. He's received more hits in two minutes than in all the times Watson has seen him fight before, some bruises already forming on his chest and back. But he refuses to stay down, and he keeps on grinning, laughing and taunting his foe.
Maybe he's not just drugged, he's also insane.
The next blow sends William crashing against the planks where Watson is standing, and he slides to the ground in a dazed heap. He tries to regain his footing, holding onto the wood and pulling himself up. This close Watson can almost touch him, and he has to clench his fists to control that ridiculous impulse. This is getting out of hand.
William stands up again, his back to the ring and his eyes lock with Watson's. They are almost black, the irises swallowed by the pupil, and they appear unfocused. And then there is that slow smirk again, and the gaze sharpens, not leaving Watson. He can smell William, a mixture of sweat and alcohol which would usually repel him but now makes him lean closer to the source.
Watson wonders for an instant if he's also insane.
He must be, staring at that fellow he has never met before and getting aroused in the middle of the Punchbowl Pit.
William also leans a bit forward, his eyes never leaving Watson, and he can feel the heat in his blood and William's breath on his face. In that precise moment it feels as if there isn't anyone else in the place, just the two of them staring intently at each other. Watson closes his eyes, just a tiny blink, and the moment dissolves into the frenzied shouts and catcalls of the men gambling and watching the fight.
William turns his back to Watson, his posture straightening, and it's over before the other man knows what hit him. He should be used to it by now, but it still has the effect of leaving Watson breathless, seeing the strength of William in action, the way his wiry body moves as he delivers blow after precise blow, the play of muscle in his back and arms.
Watson retreats to collect his winnings before the loser hits the ground, the heat spreading inside of him almost unbearable. He needs to get away from that place and go home before he does something stupid.
That night it's William's deep fathomless eyes in his mind and his name pushing against his throat what pushes him over the edge in the loneliness of his own bed.
…
Loath as he is to admit it, Watson knows his visits to the Punchbowl are about to be cut short. His funds have been severely depleted and he can find no way to earn some money as of yet. He's not hale enough to return to his practice, though his condition has been improving slowly since his return from Afghanistan.
Unless he's able to win big tonight, this is going to be his last visit for a while.
He doesn't; his pockets already empty by the time the stroke of luck in the form of William makes his way into the ring.
Watson sighs, disappointed to have wasted his scarce resources in the previous matches. But he stays, because with or without money he's not going to let an opportunity to see William fight go.
Especially after the last time.
William's not entirely steady as he approaches his opponent for the night, but his eyes are clear and focused. Watson looks him up and down, his gaze cataloguing all the little details he has been observing the previous times and storing them in his mind.
He spares little to no attention for the other chap, his gaze intent only on William: in the way he moves fluidly form one side of the ring to the other, the way a thin film of sweat forms over his skin, the way his eyes dart quickly from point to point. Watson has observed this before and he can almost anticipate the next move.
Watson's used by now to the way his own body reacts, the arousal thrumming through his veins as William dodges and hits, his body twisting with ease out of harms way, his muscles rippling under his skin. What Watson's not used to is seeing William's eyes moving back to him after each well placed blow, as if gauging his reaction, to the way the man seems to be able to pick him out of the crowd and hold his gaze. Watson feels the blood rushing to his face after the third time, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He needs to get away from there, Watson realizes. And get away now.
Watson retreats the moment the last hit is delivered, the conclusion one never in doubt. He makes his way out of the Punchbowl Pit and into the dark streets, sweet air filling his lungs after the stark humanity of the crowded room. He moves slowly, his injury coupled with his current discomfort making his steps awkward. He wants to get home and deal with his condition.
Watson is crossing a narrow and damp alley when he notices someone following him. It's not such a strange happening, not in that part of town and that time of night. The skills acquired in the army served him in good stead the previous times, and though he'd much rather not have to, Watson is ready to use them again.
He turns to face his assailant.
"You are in no condition to defend yourself from me, should I wish to cause you harm, my good man." The voice is soft and educated, not what Watson would expect from street roughs taking advantage of the drunks leaving the Pit.
The man takes a step toward him, the faint light from the moon illuminating his features for an instant. Watson's breath catches in his throat.
"You were staring at me," William says, approaching him slowly. He's wearing a hastily buttoned shirt and a jacket, and his gaze is as intense as when he was fighting. "I have noticed you before, out of place among all the brutes in that place. You always leave as soon as I am finished."
"Do I?" Watson says, torn between the impulse of fleeing and the desire to stay for whatever it is William has followed him here. It will probably be a trashing, Watson thinks, if William has deduced his desire.
"You do." There is a smirk in the voice as well as the face, but it doesn’t feel threatening. Another step and William is again shrouded in darkness, both of them hidden from view inside the alley.
It's the perfect place for a crime.
The hands that reach for him are not harsh and cruel but surprisingly gentle, and there is no doubt in Watson's mind what kind of crime is about to take place.
He can barely see the outline of William as he closes the distance between them, pressing Watson against the grimy wall of the alley and invading his personal space.
"I could see the signs of your desire," William whispers against the side of his face and Watson shivers. "They were clear for one who knows how to read them. They were clear to me."
There are no more words spoken, not that Watson would be able to even if he had the right ones. He feels almost as if he's in the middle of a dream, those strong hands deftly undoing his flies and reaching for him.
It should be cold and impersonal, but for some strange reason it isn't. He can feel William's breath against his face, the heat emanating from his body and his arousal pressing against Watson's side. He shudders the moment he's freed from his trousers, the cold air hitting his bare skin.
It's too one sided for Watson's taste, though, and before he has made the conscious decision to, his own hand is moving to touch William. He undoes the buttons on the shirt, his hand running over the skin he has admired from afar. William chuckles softly, soft puffs of air hitting Watson's face and neck, and they press against each other, their hands seeking in the darkness.
It's hurried and clumsy, Watson reaching for William's trousers and fondling him through the cloth as a hand curls around his member and strokes him firmly. Watson has never done something like this, though he has heard of this kind of affairs, and has a second to marvel at his own lack of shame at the act he's performing.
There is nothing in Watson's mind, though, but the feel of William's hand stroking him and his need for completion. He's close, he's been aroused since the moment William entered the ring, and having him there now, his smell and the press of his body against Watson's, is enough to push him over the edge.
Watson shudders his release, his breath coming out in short pants, while William keeps moving and pressing against his hand, his motions jerky and frantic. He applies more pressure, his fingers curling to cup William over his clothes. It lasts barely a minute longer; William's quiet gasps the only sound filling the alley.
When it's over they disentangle without a word, arranging their clothes in a silence that oddly enough is not uncomfortable at all.
The part in the same way, a touch to Watson's shoulder the only warning before he finds himself alone in the alley.
That night he doesn’t dream, there is no reason to.
…
The meeting with Stamford can be considered extremely lucky, though Watson wonders why he has asked the man for lunch. It's not as if he can afford it, same as his rooms in the hotel, but seeing a familiar face in London after all that time has made him forget his financial troubles for a while.
They engage in the kind of conversation two acquaintances who have not seen each other in a long time do, it's mostly trivialities and reminiscing, and Watson finds his mind drifting from time to time. It's not that he considers Stamford boring, it's just--he keeps going back to that night, and curses his lack of funds for another visit to the Punchbowl.
"What are you up to now?" Stamford asks him in a lull in the conversation, and Watson tells him of his need for new rooms. He doubts Stamford can be of much help in that front, but as it happens, he is.
The picture Stamford paints of that fellow, that Sherlock Holmes, is not particularly flattering. It's intriguing, though, and Watson agrees to go and meet him. What he's thinking, actually, is that halving the cost of lodgings would mean he can spend his meagre funds in something else.
He's not expecting much of the encounter, not after Stamford less than encouraging words, when they arrive at the labs to find a man bent over some experiment. He seems to have heard them, for he turns and springs to his feet with a cry of pleasure, shouting something about a discovery.
Watson doesn't hear a word about it. He knows he must look ridiculous, standing there with his mouth almost gaping open and staring at the man, at Sherlock Holmes, in shock. The hair is neatly combed back and he's wearing a lab coat over his clothes, but his sharp grey eyes are unmistakable. And so is the shadow of a smirk he gives Watson before turning to get one of his test tubes to show it to Stamford, the torrent of words falling from his mouth unintelligible to Watson.
He recovers his composure enough to shake his hand, the same hand which left him gasping in a dirty alley some nights ago, when Stamford introduces them. He can feel the strength of that hand, the same that felled men twice as big as him and yet stroked him so gently and expertly, and can tell by the amused quirk of his brow that Holmes can read the thoughts in his mind as if he were an open book.
It takes Watson an instant to realize how very fortunate he's being for once in his life, this opportunity too good to pass, and he smiles at his future lodger.
"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive."
…
Author: aviss
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~4.000
Summary: There is something in the Punchbowl Pit which interests Watson more than the fights.
Author Notes: This if for yetanothermask who got me in the help_chile auction. I hope this is to your liking.
Everything in Time
Watson can feel something different in the Punchbowl Pit the moment he steps inside, though he's hard pressed to say exactly what. It sounds and smells the same, the disgusting mixture of sweat and alcohol and sickness and desperation which make him wonder why he's unable to stay away from that god forsaken hellhole.
He's tried; ever since he came back from Afghanistan, he's tried to stay away from unsavoury places like that. He can ill afford to lose money he's not currently earning, after all.
Tonight the crowd is louder and worse tempered than usual, their jeers reaching fevered pitch as the fighting in the ring progresses. There is an air of restlessness and barely contained anger in the place. His curiosity piqued, Watson pushes through he crowd, earning a few disgruntled curses and sharp looks from the men he passes by.
And then he's there, looking at the ring and feeling his eyebrows shot up his forehead.
Two men are exchanging blows, as per usual. One is a big lumbering chap, his head bald and his face badly scarred. He has hands the size of the other man's head and his skin is glistening with sweat. He's smiling nastily, shouting as the other fellow scurries around the right.
He's not the one Watson's interested in, though.
The other man is slight and wiry, though by no means small he appears diminished next to the brute he's facing. His bared torso is also slick with sweat and showing a few fading bruises. He's grinning, as if he's having the time of his life, and running around the ring. He darts from one side to the other, using his speed to get close to his opponent and land quick blows on him. It's easy to see those hits are nothing more than stings for the huge man, though they are irritating him. The smaller man grins as he lands an open handed slap on the other's face, retreating to a safe distance quickly.
Their strengths are not matched, and fighting in that way it's a miracle the man is still standing. There is something in his eyes, though, which makes Watson reconsider the scene. Those eyes are clear and calculating, moving around quickly as if he can see what the next move is going to be and is anticipating it.
He's going to win, Watson realizes suddenly. Insane as the thought is, the big fellow has no chance against him.
He makes his way back quickly and places a bet for the smaller man, returning to his previous spot to watch the conclusion of the match.
Nothing happens for a minute, the same dance being danced by both men until the big one lunges forward with a mighty cry, swinging huge fists blindly. The other ducks, still grinning, and lands two precise hits which make his opponent stumble backwards before he regains his balance and attacks again. The crowd is shouting, excited, leaning forward as if they can feel the conclusion of the fight at hand. Watson also does, his hands resting on the wooden planks surrounding the boxers, his eyes never leaving the smaller man.
The man moves with a feline grace, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles and those uncanny grey eyes sharp and alert. Watson is riveted. He watches, observing the way he sidesteps avoiding a punch, the play of the muscles in his back as he launches a swift counter attack, his fists fast and precise, the way his spine bends when he finally knocks the big one with a hard elbow to the neck. Watson is left there, gaping, as the crowd erupts around him and the man departs from the ring without looking back.
It takes him a couple of minutes to recover himself enough to collect his winnings, his mind replaying the moves in slow motion. He leaves the Punchbowl shortly after that, the fights taking place now uninteresting after the one he's just witnessed.
…
Watson is not surprised to find himself searching for that man the next time he goes to the Punchbowl.
Before, he'd manage to stay away from that place maybe for a fortnight. It's been barely three nights since that day and he's back, and he's not even going to pretend to be there for any reason except to see that fellow.
Watson knows there is nothing sustaining the assumption that the man is a regular, and yet he felt it in the air, in the voices of the patrons. He wasn't just passing by, and Watson hopes to see him again.
It has not left his mind for the past three days, and where before he had patients and a healthy life to keep him away from his most unsavoury vices, now he just has an army pension and long, empty days filled with ennui. It's not surprising he goes back to the first thing to stir his interest in what feels like ages.
"That'd be William; odd fellow that one, comes and goes as he pleases," one of the bookies says after Watson inquires about the man, his pockets already empty from the night's losses. "What's your interest in him?" he looks at Watson mistrustfully for an instant, his brows furrowing menacingly.
Watson's deliberately vague reply about seeing him fight once doesn't clear the expression and the bookie clams up. He leaves a few minutes later, the brutes beating each other in the ring not enough to hold his interest without the incentive of a gamble.
…
It's not until a fortnight later that Watson sees the man again.
The frequent visits to the Punchbowl have left a huge dent in his resources, and Watson fears tonight might be his last visit for a while. Maybe he will be better served forgetting about the chap; he doesn't know him, after all, and it puzzles him the fact that he left such an impression after seeing him just once.
Watson's considering leaving when the last match ends. He's been lucky tonight, and his pockets are not yet completely empty. He's going to need the money for food and other necessities during the week; it would be wise to stop gambling while he's still ahead.
Watson sees the man as he's turning to leave and stops dead in his tracks. The noise around him increases as do the jeers and insults, and Watson narrows his eyes as he takes in the fighters. This time is not a huge brute the one this William's facing, but a slight young man with a determined expression. Both of them are shirtless, and from his position is easy to appreciate the sinewy strength of their bodies. It looks like an interesting one.
It's still in the first stages when Watson realizes William is going to win, and without breaking a sweat. The other chap is light on his feet and very, very fast. He's not very big, though, and his hits lack the weight to fell someone so deceptively strong as William. Watson retreats for an instant and places his bet, risking all his remaining money in a hunch.
He would wonder, in any other circumstance, what is that gave him the certainty. This time, though, he knows; it's the eyes. Watson takes his place at the front of the ring and observes the proceeding, his eyes never leaving William's. They appear cold and calculating, shinning with wry amusement. At some point, Watson has the impression William takes his eyes from his opponent, just for an instant, to lock with his. It might just be his imagination, but he sees his lips curling in a smile before he delivers the finishing blows.
As before, William leaves the ring without looking back, and Watson watches his retreating back until he too collects his winning and goes home.
It's not until he's ensconced in his room in the hotel that Watson realizes the trill of the night has not completely left him, and a part of his anatomy which had been quiescent since his injury seems to be functioning again. It's not as surprising as it should be that it has awoken tonight, and it's William's svelte but strong body he pictures in his mind as he takes himself in hand for the first time since the War.
…
Watson misses William the next few times he's in the Punchbowl, his visits short and unsatisfying. His dwindling funds don't allow him to linger in the place for long, and twice he considers stopping altogether for a while.
And yet, he keeps going at least a couple of times a week.
Once he catches a glimpse of William's back as he leaves the ring, hair plastered to his skull and smooth skin slick with sweat and Watson turns around and leaves immediately, the sudden ache in his loins strange and at the same time expected.
That night Watson pictures that same back bent under him as he strokes himself to completion.
…
The next time Watson sees him there is something different about William.
He has learned not to anticipate seeing the man, since it appears most of the patrons, and there are more regulars there than Watson would have imagined, don't know or are unwilling to talk about him. Aside from learning this and losing his money, Watson has achieved little since the last time.
It's not that he's obsessed with that man, he's just interested. And since there's been so little of interest for him since his return he's loath to forget about this.
It's not helping his finances one bit, that's for sure, but Watson knows enough about himself to know that'd be the case even without William.
And besides, William seems to be a sure bet, so maybe he is helping his finances.
But tonight--tonight Watson looks at him closely the moment he steps into the ring, and a frown mars his features. William's eyes are not the sharp and clear grey he saw the first times; they are clouded, pupils blown so they appear almost black from that distance, and he's holding himself stiffly. Watson sees him stumble a couple of steps, keeping his balance just barely and reaching out to hold the wooden ring. The crowd laughs merrily at the sight, entertained.
He's drunk, Watson realizes after a second. Drunk or drugged.
This deduction is confirmed the moment his opponent enters the ring and William laughs loudly at the sight of him. It's a big chap, not huge but broad shouldered and with bulging arms and a scowl nothing short of menacing. William says something, his speech too slurred for the words to register, and the other man lunges at him without preamble.
The man is big, but he's also fast, and he delivers a kick which knocks William on his arse. It takes him a few seconds to recover, climbing unsteadily to his feet and resting against the planks to catch his breath. Watson feels the impulse to shout at him, berate him for participating in the match in such a state.
Watson should go and place the usual bet only this time against William, but he's unable to. It doesn't feel right for some reason.
Knowing it's foolish, Watson uses his last funds to back William and goes back to watch.
He curses himself for his misplaced faith in a stranger, seeing William being tossed around the ring by his opponent. He's received more hits in two minutes than in all the times Watson has seen him fight before, some bruises already forming on his chest and back. But he refuses to stay down, and he keeps on grinning, laughing and taunting his foe.
Maybe he's not just drugged, he's also insane.
The next blow sends William crashing against the planks where Watson is standing, and he slides to the ground in a dazed heap. He tries to regain his footing, holding onto the wood and pulling himself up. This close Watson can almost touch him, and he has to clench his fists to control that ridiculous impulse. This is getting out of hand.
William stands up again, his back to the ring and his eyes lock with Watson's. They are almost black, the irises swallowed by the pupil, and they appear unfocused. And then there is that slow smirk again, and the gaze sharpens, not leaving Watson. He can smell William, a mixture of sweat and alcohol which would usually repel him but now makes him lean closer to the source.
Watson wonders for an instant if he's also insane.
He must be, staring at that fellow he has never met before and getting aroused in the middle of the Punchbowl Pit.
William also leans a bit forward, his eyes never leaving Watson, and he can feel the heat in his blood and William's breath on his face. In that precise moment it feels as if there isn't anyone else in the place, just the two of them staring intently at each other. Watson closes his eyes, just a tiny blink, and the moment dissolves into the frenzied shouts and catcalls of the men gambling and watching the fight.
William turns his back to Watson, his posture straightening, and it's over before the other man knows what hit him. He should be used to it by now, but it still has the effect of leaving Watson breathless, seeing the strength of William in action, the way his wiry body moves as he delivers blow after precise blow, the play of muscle in his back and arms.
Watson retreats to collect his winnings before the loser hits the ground, the heat spreading inside of him almost unbearable. He needs to get away from that place and go home before he does something stupid.
That night it's William's deep fathomless eyes in his mind and his name pushing against his throat what pushes him over the edge in the loneliness of his own bed.
…
Loath as he is to admit it, Watson knows his visits to the Punchbowl are about to be cut short. His funds have been severely depleted and he can find no way to earn some money as of yet. He's not hale enough to return to his practice, though his condition has been improving slowly since his return from Afghanistan.
Unless he's able to win big tonight, this is going to be his last visit for a while.
He doesn't; his pockets already empty by the time the stroke of luck in the form of William makes his way into the ring.
Watson sighs, disappointed to have wasted his scarce resources in the previous matches. But he stays, because with or without money he's not going to let an opportunity to see William fight go.
Especially after the last time.
William's not entirely steady as he approaches his opponent for the night, but his eyes are clear and focused. Watson looks him up and down, his gaze cataloguing all the little details he has been observing the previous times and storing them in his mind.
He spares little to no attention for the other chap, his gaze intent only on William: in the way he moves fluidly form one side of the ring to the other, the way a thin film of sweat forms over his skin, the way his eyes dart quickly from point to point. Watson has observed this before and he can almost anticipate the next move.
Watson's used by now to the way his own body reacts, the arousal thrumming through his veins as William dodges and hits, his body twisting with ease out of harms way, his muscles rippling under his skin. What Watson's not used to is seeing William's eyes moving back to him after each well placed blow, as if gauging his reaction, to the way the man seems to be able to pick him out of the crowd and hold his gaze. Watson feels the blood rushing to his face after the third time, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He needs to get away from there, Watson realizes. And get away now.
Watson retreats the moment the last hit is delivered, the conclusion one never in doubt. He makes his way out of the Punchbowl Pit and into the dark streets, sweet air filling his lungs after the stark humanity of the crowded room. He moves slowly, his injury coupled with his current discomfort making his steps awkward. He wants to get home and deal with his condition.
Watson is crossing a narrow and damp alley when he notices someone following him. It's not such a strange happening, not in that part of town and that time of night. The skills acquired in the army served him in good stead the previous times, and though he'd much rather not have to, Watson is ready to use them again.
He turns to face his assailant.
"You are in no condition to defend yourself from me, should I wish to cause you harm, my good man." The voice is soft and educated, not what Watson would expect from street roughs taking advantage of the drunks leaving the Pit.
The man takes a step toward him, the faint light from the moon illuminating his features for an instant. Watson's breath catches in his throat.
"You were staring at me," William says, approaching him slowly. He's wearing a hastily buttoned shirt and a jacket, and his gaze is as intense as when he was fighting. "I have noticed you before, out of place among all the brutes in that place. You always leave as soon as I am finished."
"Do I?" Watson says, torn between the impulse of fleeing and the desire to stay for whatever it is William has followed him here. It will probably be a trashing, Watson thinks, if William has deduced his desire.
"You do." There is a smirk in the voice as well as the face, but it doesn’t feel threatening. Another step and William is again shrouded in darkness, both of them hidden from view inside the alley.
It's the perfect place for a crime.
The hands that reach for him are not harsh and cruel but surprisingly gentle, and there is no doubt in Watson's mind what kind of crime is about to take place.
He can barely see the outline of William as he closes the distance between them, pressing Watson against the grimy wall of the alley and invading his personal space.
"I could see the signs of your desire," William whispers against the side of his face and Watson shivers. "They were clear for one who knows how to read them. They were clear to me."
There are no more words spoken, not that Watson would be able to even if he had the right ones. He feels almost as if he's in the middle of a dream, those strong hands deftly undoing his flies and reaching for him.
It should be cold and impersonal, but for some strange reason it isn't. He can feel William's breath against his face, the heat emanating from his body and his arousal pressing against Watson's side. He shudders the moment he's freed from his trousers, the cold air hitting his bare skin.
It's too one sided for Watson's taste, though, and before he has made the conscious decision to, his own hand is moving to touch William. He undoes the buttons on the shirt, his hand running over the skin he has admired from afar. William chuckles softly, soft puffs of air hitting Watson's face and neck, and they press against each other, their hands seeking in the darkness.
It's hurried and clumsy, Watson reaching for William's trousers and fondling him through the cloth as a hand curls around his member and strokes him firmly. Watson has never done something like this, though he has heard of this kind of affairs, and has a second to marvel at his own lack of shame at the act he's performing.
There is nothing in Watson's mind, though, but the feel of William's hand stroking him and his need for completion. He's close, he's been aroused since the moment William entered the ring, and having him there now, his smell and the press of his body against Watson's, is enough to push him over the edge.
Watson shudders his release, his breath coming out in short pants, while William keeps moving and pressing against his hand, his motions jerky and frantic. He applies more pressure, his fingers curling to cup William over his clothes. It lasts barely a minute longer; William's quiet gasps the only sound filling the alley.
When it's over they disentangle without a word, arranging their clothes in a silence that oddly enough is not uncomfortable at all.
The part in the same way, a touch to Watson's shoulder the only warning before he finds himself alone in the alley.
That night he doesn’t dream, there is no reason to.
…
The meeting with Stamford can be considered extremely lucky, though Watson wonders why he has asked the man for lunch. It's not as if he can afford it, same as his rooms in the hotel, but seeing a familiar face in London after all that time has made him forget his financial troubles for a while.
They engage in the kind of conversation two acquaintances who have not seen each other in a long time do, it's mostly trivialities and reminiscing, and Watson finds his mind drifting from time to time. It's not that he considers Stamford boring, it's just--he keeps going back to that night, and curses his lack of funds for another visit to the Punchbowl.
"What are you up to now?" Stamford asks him in a lull in the conversation, and Watson tells him of his need for new rooms. He doubts Stamford can be of much help in that front, but as it happens, he is.
The picture Stamford paints of that fellow, that Sherlock Holmes, is not particularly flattering. It's intriguing, though, and Watson agrees to go and meet him. What he's thinking, actually, is that halving the cost of lodgings would mean he can spend his meagre funds in something else.
He's not expecting much of the encounter, not after Stamford less than encouraging words, when they arrive at the labs to find a man bent over some experiment. He seems to have heard them, for he turns and springs to his feet with a cry of pleasure, shouting something about a discovery.
Watson doesn't hear a word about it. He knows he must look ridiculous, standing there with his mouth almost gaping open and staring at the man, at Sherlock Holmes, in shock. The hair is neatly combed back and he's wearing a lab coat over his clothes, but his sharp grey eyes are unmistakable. And so is the shadow of a smirk he gives Watson before turning to get one of his test tubes to show it to Stamford, the torrent of words falling from his mouth unintelligible to Watson.
He recovers his composure enough to shake his hand, the same hand which left him gasping in a dirty alley some nights ago, when Stamford introduces them. He can feel the strength of that hand, the same that felled men twice as big as him and yet stroked him so gently and expertly, and can tell by the amused quirk of his brow that Holmes can read the thoughts in his mind as if he were an open book.
It takes Watson an instant to realize how very fortunate he's being for once in his life, this opportunity too good to pass, and he smiles at his future lodger.
"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive."
…