Sherlock Holmes; Fic; A Study in The Art of Proper Reciprocation, NC-17
Oh, look. THE PROMISED SEQUEL. Ask and YOU SHALL RECEIVE, FANDOM :D
Also, I clearly need to invest some time in finding Holmes icons.
Title: A Study in the Art of Proper Reciprocation
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Author's Note: This is the immediate sequel to Things That Bear Repeating. If you would like to read this without reading that, all you need to know is this: in that fic, Holmes falls in the Thames on a case and nearly dies, and Watson gives him a lecture on the value of his life. Uh...involving his dick.
Summary: Holmes wakes to a mystery that is a decided pleasure to solve.
It is the natural instinct of man, upon waking, to open his eyes and determine his surroundings.
Sherlock Holmes knows this. He also knows that there are times in a man's life when he wakes somewhere he would rather not be; as such, betraying one's alert state in so obvious a manner is foolish. It gives one away. It limits time for reasoning. It is in full acknowledgement of this truth that he has spent years training himself to wake with his eyes entirely closed.
The skill behooves him this morning, when he awakens with an infernal headache and no idea of where he is. A lesser man--no, that's not right. A man of lesser intellect would panic, but Holmes is more than a little used to waking up with infernal headaches and no notion of where he is located.
As always, he starts with the details.
First, his clothing. The trousers, worn thin in the knee from his tendency to wear them to the boxing ring, feel like his own, and the shirt--crisp, starched, retaining some semblance of order even after having been slept in--is obviously Watson's. That's all right, then. He's probably safe; he'd be able to feel a rip in the fabric at very least if he wasn't.
Still, safety is probable but not certain. He does not open his eyes.
The next thing to check is the scent of the place. He draws in a breath, careful not to betray anything other than the faint gasp of a heavy dream. He smells Watson's cologne and the musky odor of his own chemicals and the wafting scent of Mrs. Hudson's preferred candlewax; home. The sitting room, most likely--this feels like his settee.
Gone a little harder than intended on the seven percent solution, then. Nothing to worry about. There is no light attempting to beat its way past his closed eyelids, so it must be night still; he needn't pursue this longer. Holmes readies himself to slide back into sleep, prepared to deal with actually remembering the previous evening later, when it occurs to him that he is not alone. That he is, in fact, lying half on top of someone.
Perhaps he should have noticed this first, but he is very tired.
He moves his head experimentally. Broad chest, familiar musculature under another crisp white shirt, no objection to the patch of light drool Holmes can feel under his chin--Watson. Definitively Watson. The idea that it could be anyone else is absurd.
"I say, this is a puzzle," Holmes mutters, barely awake enough to form the words.
"'S a dream," Watson groans, entirely asleep. "No mystery. T'morrow."
Holmes nods, but does not allow himself to give in to the tug of exhaustion. Not a drug binge after all--while it is, of course, possible that Watson would have indulged him enough to curl up on the couch with him while intoxicated, it is not likely. The man does take a ridiculous tack on such things.
Although, come to think on it, he also takes a ridiculous tack on the necessity of sleeping in a proper bed, as though not doing so has ever caused anyone any harm. Holmes frowns, eyes still closed. He feels the faint memory of something stir within him--Watson wouldn't sleep on the couch unless he had a damn good reason to do so and something had--Holmes remembers being very cold, and shivers slightly--what had transpired--
Watson starts, and his hand runs down Holmes' back.
"Holmes," he murmurs, and that's worry in his tone, sharp even as his voice is soft, sleep-scatched. "What is it?"
Ahh, the Thames, that's right, Holmes thinks, feeling victorious. Blow to the head explains the headache, chill explains the shiver, near-drowning explains Watson on the couch.
"No matter," he returns drowsily, "I've solved it," and he's out again before Watson can respond.
--
When he wakes next it's to the sensation of being abandoned. Watson has him by the shoulders, eases him back down onto the settee as he gets up. "Mmmmrph," Holmes manages, but he doesn't argue more than that, partially because he can't really muster the energy to do so.
He chances opening his eyes. It is unconscionably bright, and he closes them hastily. He hears Watson open the door, hears the voice of Mrs. Hudson bidding him a good morning--she must have knocked.
Nosy interrupting woman, Holmes thinks, not without bitterness. I could have gotten at least another ten minutes of sleep.
"Thank you," Watson says. Another murmur, just out of Holmes' hearing range, and then laughter; "Yes," Watson says, "that does appear to be the case."
Murmurs.
"I certainly don't know," Watson chuckles, "perhaps he just enjoys self-flagellation?"
Decidedly darker murmurs.
"Well, I appreciate the breakfast, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure the lazy git does as well, whether he'll admit it or not. Good morning to you too."
The door shuts. Holmes slits his eyes open just enough to see Watson put down the tray, tuck the paper under his arm and pour himself a cuppa. Then he straightens and casts a quick glance between the couch and the armchair.
Holmes, who has always been a good actor, lets out a pitiful little groan.
"Oh, fine," Watson sighs. He moves back to the settee, puts the cuppa on the end table, and lifts Holmes by the shoulders again. "Budge up, you great lug," he says, and Holmes replies by going limp and feigning a snore.
He thinks he's gotten away with it, too, and is almost disappointed as Watson settles them back into their previous position. Then:
"You're not fooling anyone, old cock," Watson says, in a voice that is clearly trying for irritated but succeeds only in being fond, and Holmes falls asleep grinning into his shirt.
--
The third time Holmes wakes, it is with that kind of instantaneous refreshed jolt that indicates a good night's rest. Yawning hugely, he cracks his back and opens his eyes. He is greeted, immediately, by a black and white image of Lestrade's face.
"Attempted murder most foul!" Holmes cries, screwing his eyes shut at once. "Take it away, it is too much, I shall perish."
"The creature stirs," Watson returns, not glancing away from the newspaper he has tented over Holmes' head. "Tell me, are you really awake this time, or are you going to regale me with another fascinating tirade of sleeptalk? Your treatise on the difficulties of playing the violin underwater was really quite compelling, Holmes; it's a shame that you slept through it."
"As if anyone could go back to sleep after waking to Lestrade," Holmes grumbles. "His poor wife, I don't see how she manages it." He pops one eye open; the aberration is still there. "Watson, he's looking at me."
"He didn't make the front page for solving your case," Watson murmurs. "I thought you'd be happy."
"Did I make the front page?" Holmes asks, alarmed. "I was half-drowned, I wasn't paying attention to-- "
"No photographs. Who do you think I am? Calm yourself."
Holmes relaxes and looks back at the paper with interest. Lestrade's face in still there, on the right side of the fold; he ignores it. On the left--
"Watson," Holmes says, not bothering to suppress his laughter, "are you reading the society pages?"
"I have a crick in my neck from sleeping here," Watson snaps, "and probably tetanus from that river, and I have lost at least another ten years of my life to worrying about you. Kindly refrain from mocking my reading choices."
"Kindly refrain from mocking my reading choices," Holmes mimics back at him. Watson gives the back of his head a stern glare that he can feel. "What? You didn't say I couldn't mock you personally."
"I liked you better when you were asleep."
"I'm sure you're not the first," Holmes murmurs, grinning. He glances over the summary of the case the paper has printed--Lestrade and Scotland Yard, brilliant again, aided by Sherlock Holmes, etc.--and then tries, valiantly, to read the society news.
"This is drivel," he concludes. "Drivel, I tell you. There is nothing of interest in these pages at all--"
"You could get up," Watson offers, and Holmes quiets. His bluff, alas, has been called.
"Was there any post for me?" he asks, after a long minute. Watson sighs.
"Scads, actually. On the table."
Holmes snakes an arm back, knocks over Watson's teacup, and does not bother apologizing as he grabs the stack of envelopes. He flips through them idly, and then he has a brilliant idea.
"I think you should read me the post," he says, flipping over so he is looking at Watson, who raises his eyebrows.
"Should I," he mutters dryly, barely even a question. "And why, pray tell, can't you read them yourself?"
"I am occupied," Holmes returns loftily. Before Watson can begin to argue this point, Holmes slides down lower on the settee, bending his legs to fit properly. He undoes Watson's flies and slips the man's cock out, drumming his fingers against it. It's soft but he feels it begin to harden already, and he smiles.
"Read me the post, Watson," Holmes says, and pulls it into his mouth.
Watson gives him a speaking look, one that discusses exasperation and also exhaustion, but his cock says something different. It is getting harder and harder in Holmes' mouth as he sits, not moving, lips wrapped lightly around it.
"You aren't going to start in earnest until I start reading, are you?"
Holmes shrugs a shoulder and wiggles the envelopes, and Watson snatches them away with a put-upon sigh and a small smile he is clearly trying to hide. He opens the first, glances over it briefly, and opens his mouth.
"Lady Taylor," he says, and Holmes sucks the air out of his cheeks, begins to move. Watson draws in a rough staccato breath and continues: "She seems to have misplaced her, ah, her favorite pearls. If I'm not mistaken she was, er, she was...advertising for a--"
He pauses, and his cock has jumped to full attention now. Holmes smiles around it and raps hard on the underside with his tongue, a reminder.
"Right!" Watson cries. There is a hint of a blush to his cheeks and Holmes feels something roil pleasurably in his own gut. "Advertising for a, um, a, a chamber maid. Yes, that's--"
Holmes reaches out a hand, pulls the envelope from Watson's unresisting fingers, and tosses it away from them. Even distracted, Watson is still Watson enough to raise his eyebrows in amusement.
"I suppose you don't really have any other way of expressing--god, Holmes--of expressing your boredom."
Holmes shakes his head; Watson's dick slides into the inside of one of his cheeks and the man actually growls, tipping his head back. Again Holmes raps his tongue against the sensitive underside skin; again a faint blush comes to Watson's cheeks at this reminder.
"Patience," Watson chides, but his breath hitches around the word; Holmes wriggles his eyebrows a bit, and Watson's blush goes a little deeper. Really, it would be hilarious--this man had all but spanked him the previous evening, had by all scales of measurement fucked him right into the floor--if it wasn't so goddamned arousing.
"Let's just s-see here," Watson manages, "we've got, ah, a request from the ever-present Madame--Holmes, how can you possibly expect me to be coh..coherent, when you're--"
And Holmes stops moving, widens his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.
"Bastard," Watson hisses with feeling. He lifts the envelope up again--Holmes notes with no small amount of glee that his hand is shaking--and resumes his broken reading. "Madame Eliason--her bitch, the pug, is--bloody hell--stolen again--"
Holmes snatches the envelope and tosses it and Watson, frenzied, rips the next one open with his teeth. Holmes just chuckles softly and increases his pace, swiping his tongue across the tip of Watson's cock as he does so.
"Nnnnnngh," Watson says, and then, "Huh. This one isn't, it, what was I--it's not signed, and there is really a rather excessive amount of, OH--of punctuation, Holmes what did you just--"
Holmes keeps sucking but tilts his head inquisitively; Watson's blush is fully spread across his face now, deep red, gorgeous. Holmes stares at him and his own cock is straining the bounds of his worn trousers now, but he wants to know the contents of that letter.
"It says--a meeting--come alone--"
"Hmmmmm," Holmes says around Watson's dick; the doctor's whole body spasms. Holmes reaches up and grabs, but does not toss, the envelope. He shoves it under his thigh for later perusal instead.
The problem--if one can even call it a problem--is that this action reveals his tented trousers to his companion, who narrows his eyes.
"Two can--play this--bloody buggering hell--" and Watson reaches one blissfully long arm down and cups Holmes' cock over his trousers.
Holmes wants to keep playing the game--he does--but the glorious unbearable friction is too much to ignore. He frots frantically against Watson's broad palm as Watson, who appears to have gotten rather used to the talking by this point, begins to ramble.
"You are so, so--with your mouth, Holmes, it's hardly fair--but you like that, don't you, my ha..my hand, Holmes, Holmes, HOLMES--"
And Holmes should tell him to be quiet, but god, it's all he can do not to scream himself as Watson works his fingers down inside his trousers. The man is so far gone that he doesn't even really have a grip on Holmes' cock, is just brushing his fingertips against it, almost drumming them. And this is better, because its a challenge, because Holmes has to push himself up and up and up into Watson's unpredictable hand to get himself off.
He sucks in, and he sucks in, and he is grinding himself up to the bright raw oblivion of Watson's carefully trimmed nails and Watson is still talking, his voice ragged with want, dragged raw. He almost comes just from this, the sound of Watson repeating his name, rounding out each syllable with a rasp of desperate pleasure.
But he is a man of lofty intellect and loftier commitment to details, and it would be unconscionable not to at least attempt--
He slides himself all the way down to the tip of Watson's cock, lingers there just a second, and then moves up, all the way up, pulling Watson down into the very back of his throat. Watson stops saying anything then, just looses a series of garbled noises, and Holmes grinds harder into that flat palm, so close, so very tantalizingly close.
Holmes comes first. He doesn't mind that, just rides it out, sucking ever harder, and when Watson digs the fingers of his unoccupied hand into Holmes' scalp he feels victory sing in his blood, better than any orgasm. "Holmes," Watson manages to grind out, and he comes in long, slow, pulsing strokes, filling Holmes' throat. It is through force of will alone that Holmes does not gag around him, but then Holmes has always been willful.
"Holmes," Watson says softly when he's done, and that sounds like emotion in his voice--that won't do at all. Holmes pulls away quickly, grins, and swipes the corner of his lip with his thumb. What comes away is milky and white, and he licks it off, still smiling.
Watson groans. He looks utterly debauched, sweating, face still flushed bright red. Holmes thinks about kissing him, and doesn't.
Instead, he says, "Well. Let's see, old chap, shall we? Lady Taylor has, of course, fallen victim to poor choice in employee. Luck thing the girl is still in the city, else she'd have no hope of getting that necklace back. Do remind me to send the Irregulars out, won't you? They'll find her at one of the jewelers in town, probably wearing the dress I'm sure vanished with the pearls. And Madam Eliason would do better to chain up that dog than report it missing. It'll be back in the morning, I expect, carrying yet another litter of mongrel pups."
"How can you even remember--"
"As for this," Holmes continues, pulling the cryptic note from under his thigh, "the writer was either very drunk or attempting to make me believe he was very drunk. My bet is upon the latter--see how the curve of the g is steady? A drunk man would have left it off altogether."
Watson take a deep, calming breath, clearly still trying to get his bearings, as Holmes smirks. "Why would he want you to think he was drunk?"
"So I would find him less threatening, of course," Holmes returns. "His plan has backfired; this meeting is trouble, and I intend to treat it as such."
"Someone appears to have forgotten his near-death experience," Watson growls. "Also, his head wound."
"My head feels fine," Holmes lies. It's almost true. "And crime may be common, but it waits for no man. I have much to do, Watson. And I'll take that."
He snatches the paper out of Watson's unresisting hands and fans it open, reading as he steps into his shoes. The clothes he's wearing already will be fine for the preliminary work he has to do.
"It would please me if you'd come to this mysterious tete-a-tete. We can have supper first," he says, and Watson clears his throat.
"You could have just thanked me for taking care of you last night," he says, amusement warring with exhaustion in his voice. "That is what you were trying to do, isn't it, with the wake-up routine?"
"Yes," Holmes says absently, absorbed in the article he's reading. Then what Watson has said catches up to him, and he stiffens, freezes.
He doesn't want to turn around. He'll see Watson looking at him, making that face he makes, the one that means I know you and You needn't say anything and Old cock, you are rather ridiculous, aren't you? It terrifies Holmes--for all the plots he's unraveled, for all the cases he's solved, there is no mystery so inscrutable as Watson, as this.
He wants to clarify, to say Of course not and Don't be a fool, but he also doesn't want to lie to this man who is, inexplicably, here. And of course the other option is to thank him, but where to begin? Thank you, Watson, for bringing me home and cleaning me up. Thank you, Watson, for shagging me until I couldn't see straight to remind me that you'd be put out if I died. Thank you, Watson, for continuing to be here, for sharing my bed, for not asking the questions I dare not answer--
So offers a clipped, "Right, old boy, see you at supper," and he's gotten all the way down the stairs, gotten his coat on, before he changes his mind.
When he returns to the sitting room Watson is standing, back facing him. Holmes reaches him in two long strides and grabs him by the shoulder and whips him 'round.
"I thought you'd left," Watson says, his voice entirely even, and Holmes kisses him.
There is a soft urgency to it, the kiss. It's the kind of embrace they don't share often, Holmes feathering his lips against Watson's, flicking his tongue lightly in and and out of his mouth. He's got a hand at the back of Watson's neck and Watson has him by the hips, and neither of them is grinding, desperate, into the other. One of them--Holmes is not sure which one--moans very softly, but aside from that there is no sound save the soft rush of quickening breath.
He palms Watson's cheek and forces himself to pull away. "Right, old boy," he says again, but softer this time, a little like he's saying something else. "See you at supper."
He's down the stairs as fast as he was up them, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Watson yelling after him, telling him not to get himself killed. And for all the world he cannot manage to shake the image of Watson's small, thrilled smile, lingering at the corner of his mouth.
Perhaps it is a bit of a comedown for the great Sherlock Holmes, but he whistles the entire way up the street.
Also, I clearly need to invest some time in finding Holmes icons.
Title: A Study in the Art of Proper Reciprocation
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Author's Note: This is the immediate sequel to Things That Bear Repeating. If you would like to read this without reading that, all you need to know is this: in that fic, Holmes falls in the Thames on a case and nearly dies, and Watson gives him a lecture on the value of his life. Uh...involving his dick.
Summary: Holmes wakes to a mystery that is a decided pleasure to solve.
It is the natural instinct of man, upon waking, to open his eyes and determine his surroundings.
Sherlock Holmes knows this. He also knows that there are times in a man's life when he wakes somewhere he would rather not be; as such, betraying one's alert state in so obvious a manner is foolish. It gives one away. It limits time for reasoning. It is in full acknowledgement of this truth that he has spent years training himself to wake with his eyes entirely closed.
The skill behooves him this morning, when he awakens with an infernal headache and no idea of where he is. A lesser man--no, that's not right. A man of lesser intellect would panic, but Holmes is more than a little used to waking up with infernal headaches and no notion of where he is located.
As always, he starts with the details.
First, his clothing. The trousers, worn thin in the knee from his tendency to wear them to the boxing ring, feel like his own, and the shirt--crisp, starched, retaining some semblance of order even after having been slept in--is obviously Watson's. That's all right, then. He's probably safe; he'd be able to feel a rip in the fabric at very least if he wasn't.
Still, safety is probable but not certain. He does not open his eyes.
The next thing to check is the scent of the place. He draws in a breath, careful not to betray anything other than the faint gasp of a heavy dream. He smells Watson's cologne and the musky odor of his own chemicals and the wafting scent of Mrs. Hudson's preferred candlewax; home. The sitting room, most likely--this feels like his settee.
Gone a little harder than intended on the seven percent solution, then. Nothing to worry about. There is no light attempting to beat its way past his closed eyelids, so it must be night still; he needn't pursue this longer. Holmes readies himself to slide back into sleep, prepared to deal with actually remembering the previous evening later, when it occurs to him that he is not alone. That he is, in fact, lying half on top of someone.
Perhaps he should have noticed this first, but he is very tired.
He moves his head experimentally. Broad chest, familiar musculature under another crisp white shirt, no objection to the patch of light drool Holmes can feel under his chin--Watson. Definitively Watson. The idea that it could be anyone else is absurd.
"I say, this is a puzzle," Holmes mutters, barely awake enough to form the words.
"'S a dream," Watson groans, entirely asleep. "No mystery. T'morrow."
Holmes nods, but does not allow himself to give in to the tug of exhaustion. Not a drug binge after all--while it is, of course, possible that Watson would have indulged him enough to curl up on the couch with him while intoxicated, it is not likely. The man does take a ridiculous tack on such things.
Although, come to think on it, he also takes a ridiculous tack on the necessity of sleeping in a proper bed, as though not doing so has ever caused anyone any harm. Holmes frowns, eyes still closed. He feels the faint memory of something stir within him--Watson wouldn't sleep on the couch unless he had a damn good reason to do so and something had--Holmes remembers being very cold, and shivers slightly--what had transpired--
Watson starts, and his hand runs down Holmes' back.
"Holmes," he murmurs, and that's worry in his tone, sharp even as his voice is soft, sleep-scatched. "What is it?"
Ahh, the Thames, that's right, Holmes thinks, feeling victorious. Blow to the head explains the headache, chill explains the shiver, near-drowning explains Watson on the couch.
"No matter," he returns drowsily, "I've solved it," and he's out again before Watson can respond.
--
When he wakes next it's to the sensation of being abandoned. Watson has him by the shoulders, eases him back down onto the settee as he gets up. "Mmmmrph," Holmes manages, but he doesn't argue more than that, partially because he can't really muster the energy to do so.
He chances opening his eyes. It is unconscionably bright, and he closes them hastily. He hears Watson open the door, hears the voice of Mrs. Hudson bidding him a good morning--she must have knocked.
Nosy interrupting woman, Holmes thinks, not without bitterness. I could have gotten at least another ten minutes of sleep.
"Thank you," Watson says. Another murmur, just out of Holmes' hearing range, and then laughter; "Yes," Watson says, "that does appear to be the case."
Murmurs.
"I certainly don't know," Watson chuckles, "perhaps he just enjoys self-flagellation?"
Decidedly darker murmurs.
"Well, I appreciate the breakfast, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure the lazy git does as well, whether he'll admit it or not. Good morning to you too."
The door shuts. Holmes slits his eyes open just enough to see Watson put down the tray, tuck the paper under his arm and pour himself a cuppa. Then he straightens and casts a quick glance between the couch and the armchair.
Holmes, who has always been a good actor, lets out a pitiful little groan.
"Oh, fine," Watson sighs. He moves back to the settee, puts the cuppa on the end table, and lifts Holmes by the shoulders again. "Budge up, you great lug," he says, and Holmes replies by going limp and feigning a snore.
He thinks he's gotten away with it, too, and is almost disappointed as Watson settles them back into their previous position. Then:
"You're not fooling anyone, old cock," Watson says, in a voice that is clearly trying for irritated but succeeds only in being fond, and Holmes falls asleep grinning into his shirt.
--
The third time Holmes wakes, it is with that kind of instantaneous refreshed jolt that indicates a good night's rest. Yawning hugely, he cracks his back and opens his eyes. He is greeted, immediately, by a black and white image of Lestrade's face.
"Attempted murder most foul!" Holmes cries, screwing his eyes shut at once. "Take it away, it is too much, I shall perish."
"The creature stirs," Watson returns, not glancing away from the newspaper he has tented over Holmes' head. "Tell me, are you really awake this time, or are you going to regale me with another fascinating tirade of sleeptalk? Your treatise on the difficulties of playing the violin underwater was really quite compelling, Holmes; it's a shame that you slept through it."
"As if anyone could go back to sleep after waking to Lestrade," Holmes grumbles. "His poor wife, I don't see how she manages it." He pops one eye open; the aberration is still there. "Watson, he's looking at me."
"He didn't make the front page for solving your case," Watson murmurs. "I thought you'd be happy."
"Did I make the front page?" Holmes asks, alarmed. "I was half-drowned, I wasn't paying attention to-- "
"No photographs. Who do you think I am? Calm yourself."
Holmes relaxes and looks back at the paper with interest. Lestrade's face in still there, on the right side of the fold; he ignores it. On the left--
"Watson," Holmes says, not bothering to suppress his laughter, "are you reading the society pages?"
"I have a crick in my neck from sleeping here," Watson snaps, "and probably tetanus from that river, and I have lost at least another ten years of my life to worrying about you. Kindly refrain from mocking my reading choices."
"Kindly refrain from mocking my reading choices," Holmes mimics back at him. Watson gives the back of his head a stern glare that he can feel. "What? You didn't say I couldn't mock you personally."
"I liked you better when you were asleep."
"I'm sure you're not the first," Holmes murmurs, grinning. He glances over the summary of the case the paper has printed--Lestrade and Scotland Yard, brilliant again, aided by Sherlock Holmes, etc.--and then tries, valiantly, to read the society news.
"This is drivel," he concludes. "Drivel, I tell you. There is nothing of interest in these pages at all--"
"You could get up," Watson offers, and Holmes quiets. His bluff, alas, has been called.
"Was there any post for me?" he asks, after a long minute. Watson sighs.
"Scads, actually. On the table."
Holmes snakes an arm back, knocks over Watson's teacup, and does not bother apologizing as he grabs the stack of envelopes. He flips through them idly, and then he has a brilliant idea.
"I think you should read me the post," he says, flipping over so he is looking at Watson, who raises his eyebrows.
"Should I," he mutters dryly, barely even a question. "And why, pray tell, can't you read them yourself?"
"I am occupied," Holmes returns loftily. Before Watson can begin to argue this point, Holmes slides down lower on the settee, bending his legs to fit properly. He undoes Watson's flies and slips the man's cock out, drumming his fingers against it. It's soft but he feels it begin to harden already, and he smiles.
"Read me the post, Watson," Holmes says, and pulls it into his mouth.
Watson gives him a speaking look, one that discusses exasperation and also exhaustion, but his cock says something different. It is getting harder and harder in Holmes' mouth as he sits, not moving, lips wrapped lightly around it.
"You aren't going to start in earnest until I start reading, are you?"
Holmes shrugs a shoulder and wiggles the envelopes, and Watson snatches them away with a put-upon sigh and a small smile he is clearly trying to hide. He opens the first, glances over it briefly, and opens his mouth.
"Lady Taylor," he says, and Holmes sucks the air out of his cheeks, begins to move. Watson draws in a rough staccato breath and continues: "She seems to have misplaced her, ah, her favorite pearls. If I'm not mistaken she was, er, she was...advertising for a--"
He pauses, and his cock has jumped to full attention now. Holmes smiles around it and raps hard on the underside with his tongue, a reminder.
"Right!" Watson cries. There is a hint of a blush to his cheeks and Holmes feels something roil pleasurably in his own gut. "Advertising for a, um, a, a chamber maid. Yes, that's--"
Holmes reaches out a hand, pulls the envelope from Watson's unresisting fingers, and tosses it away from them. Even distracted, Watson is still Watson enough to raise his eyebrows in amusement.
"I suppose you don't really have any other way of expressing--god, Holmes--of expressing your boredom."
Holmes shakes his head; Watson's dick slides into the inside of one of his cheeks and the man actually growls, tipping his head back. Again Holmes raps his tongue against the sensitive underside skin; again a faint blush comes to Watson's cheeks at this reminder.
"Patience," Watson chides, but his breath hitches around the word; Holmes wriggles his eyebrows a bit, and Watson's blush goes a little deeper. Really, it would be hilarious--this man had all but spanked him the previous evening, had by all scales of measurement fucked him right into the floor--if it wasn't so goddamned arousing.
"Let's just s-see here," Watson manages, "we've got, ah, a request from the ever-present Madame--Holmes, how can you possibly expect me to be coh..coherent, when you're--"
And Holmes stops moving, widens his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.
"Bastard," Watson hisses with feeling. He lifts the envelope up again--Holmes notes with no small amount of glee that his hand is shaking--and resumes his broken reading. "Madame Eliason--her bitch, the pug, is--bloody hell--stolen again--"
Holmes snatches the envelope and tosses it and Watson, frenzied, rips the next one open with his teeth. Holmes just chuckles softly and increases his pace, swiping his tongue across the tip of Watson's cock as he does so.
"Nnnnnngh," Watson says, and then, "Huh. This one isn't, it, what was I--it's not signed, and there is really a rather excessive amount of, OH--of punctuation, Holmes what did you just--"
Holmes keeps sucking but tilts his head inquisitively; Watson's blush is fully spread across his face now, deep red, gorgeous. Holmes stares at him and his own cock is straining the bounds of his worn trousers now, but he wants to know the contents of that letter.
"It says--a meeting--come alone--"
"Hmmmmm," Holmes says around Watson's dick; the doctor's whole body spasms. Holmes reaches up and grabs, but does not toss, the envelope. He shoves it under his thigh for later perusal instead.
The problem--if one can even call it a problem--is that this action reveals his tented trousers to his companion, who narrows his eyes.
"Two can--play this--bloody buggering hell--" and Watson reaches one blissfully long arm down and cups Holmes' cock over his trousers.
Holmes wants to keep playing the game--he does--but the glorious unbearable friction is too much to ignore. He frots frantically against Watson's broad palm as Watson, who appears to have gotten rather used to the talking by this point, begins to ramble.
"You are so, so--with your mouth, Holmes, it's hardly fair--but you like that, don't you, my ha..my hand, Holmes, Holmes, HOLMES--"
And Holmes should tell him to be quiet, but god, it's all he can do not to scream himself as Watson works his fingers down inside his trousers. The man is so far gone that he doesn't even really have a grip on Holmes' cock, is just brushing his fingertips against it, almost drumming them. And this is better, because its a challenge, because Holmes has to push himself up and up and up into Watson's unpredictable hand to get himself off.
He sucks in, and he sucks in, and he is grinding himself up to the bright raw oblivion of Watson's carefully trimmed nails and Watson is still talking, his voice ragged with want, dragged raw. He almost comes just from this, the sound of Watson repeating his name, rounding out each syllable with a rasp of desperate pleasure.
But he is a man of lofty intellect and loftier commitment to details, and it would be unconscionable not to at least attempt--
He slides himself all the way down to the tip of Watson's cock, lingers there just a second, and then moves up, all the way up, pulling Watson down into the very back of his throat. Watson stops saying anything then, just looses a series of garbled noises, and Holmes grinds harder into that flat palm, so close, so very tantalizingly close.
Holmes comes first. He doesn't mind that, just rides it out, sucking ever harder, and when Watson digs the fingers of his unoccupied hand into Holmes' scalp he feels victory sing in his blood, better than any orgasm. "Holmes," Watson manages to grind out, and he comes in long, slow, pulsing strokes, filling Holmes' throat. It is through force of will alone that Holmes does not gag around him, but then Holmes has always been willful.
"Holmes," Watson says softly when he's done, and that sounds like emotion in his voice--that won't do at all. Holmes pulls away quickly, grins, and swipes the corner of his lip with his thumb. What comes away is milky and white, and he licks it off, still smiling.
Watson groans. He looks utterly debauched, sweating, face still flushed bright red. Holmes thinks about kissing him, and doesn't.
Instead, he says, "Well. Let's see, old chap, shall we? Lady Taylor has, of course, fallen victim to poor choice in employee. Luck thing the girl is still in the city, else she'd have no hope of getting that necklace back. Do remind me to send the Irregulars out, won't you? They'll find her at one of the jewelers in town, probably wearing the dress I'm sure vanished with the pearls. And Madam Eliason would do better to chain up that dog than report it missing. It'll be back in the morning, I expect, carrying yet another litter of mongrel pups."
"How can you even remember--"
"As for this," Holmes continues, pulling the cryptic note from under his thigh, "the writer was either very drunk or attempting to make me believe he was very drunk. My bet is upon the latter--see how the curve of the g is steady? A drunk man would have left it off altogether."
Watson take a deep, calming breath, clearly still trying to get his bearings, as Holmes smirks. "Why would he want you to think he was drunk?"
"So I would find him less threatening, of course," Holmes returns. "His plan has backfired; this meeting is trouble, and I intend to treat it as such."
"Someone appears to have forgotten his near-death experience," Watson growls. "Also, his head wound."
"My head feels fine," Holmes lies. It's almost true. "And crime may be common, but it waits for no man. I have much to do, Watson. And I'll take that."
He snatches the paper out of Watson's unresisting hands and fans it open, reading as he steps into his shoes. The clothes he's wearing already will be fine for the preliminary work he has to do.
"It would please me if you'd come to this mysterious tete-a-tete. We can have supper first," he says, and Watson clears his throat.
"You could have just thanked me for taking care of you last night," he says, amusement warring with exhaustion in his voice. "That is what you were trying to do, isn't it, with the wake-up routine?"
"Yes," Holmes says absently, absorbed in the article he's reading. Then what Watson has said catches up to him, and he stiffens, freezes.
He doesn't want to turn around. He'll see Watson looking at him, making that face he makes, the one that means I know you and You needn't say anything and Old cock, you are rather ridiculous, aren't you? It terrifies Holmes--for all the plots he's unraveled, for all the cases he's solved, there is no mystery so inscrutable as Watson, as this.
He wants to clarify, to say Of course not and Don't be a fool, but he also doesn't want to lie to this man who is, inexplicably, here. And of course the other option is to thank him, but where to begin? Thank you, Watson, for bringing me home and cleaning me up. Thank you, Watson, for shagging me until I couldn't see straight to remind me that you'd be put out if I died. Thank you, Watson, for continuing to be here, for sharing my bed, for not asking the questions I dare not answer--
So offers a clipped, "Right, old boy, see you at supper," and he's gotten all the way down the stairs, gotten his coat on, before he changes his mind.
When he returns to the sitting room Watson is standing, back facing him. Holmes reaches him in two long strides and grabs him by the shoulder and whips him 'round.
"I thought you'd left," Watson says, his voice entirely even, and Holmes kisses him.
There is a soft urgency to it, the kiss. It's the kind of embrace they don't share often, Holmes feathering his lips against Watson's, flicking his tongue lightly in and and out of his mouth. He's got a hand at the back of Watson's neck and Watson has him by the hips, and neither of them is grinding, desperate, into the other. One of them--Holmes is not sure which one--moans very softly, but aside from that there is no sound save the soft rush of quickening breath.
He palms Watson's cheek and forces himself to pull away. "Right, old boy," he says again, but softer this time, a little like he's saying something else. "See you at supper."
He's down the stairs as fast as he was up them, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Watson yelling after him, telling him not to get himself killed. And for all the world he cannot manage to shake the image of Watson's small, thrilled smile, lingering at the corner of his mouth.
Perhaps it is a bit of a comedown for the great Sherlock Holmes, but he whistles the entire way up the street.