Sherlock Holmes Fic: Martyrdom of Pin Pricks (Holmes/Watson, NC-17)
HI, GUYS. APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE FOR POSTING MULTIPLE ENTRIES AT ONCE, I KIND OF FORGOT TO POST THE FICS I WROTE FOR THE KINK MEME LAST WEEK.
Everyone waiting on answers to your TA!Holmes & Waston questions: they're coming! The boys got distracted. It's really nice being able go out again, according to Holmes. Watson says he misses avoiding the clubs, but then he looks at Holmes like he's the only one in the room, so I don't think he's serious.
OKAY. FIC ONE.
Title: Martyrdom of Pin Pricks
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 3399
Warnings: Rimming. Anal sex. Holmes falling into the Thames again, because I love to soak that man and I cannot help myself.
Author's Note: A fill over at shkinkmeme, where mothergoddamn was having the kind of atrocious day that is just a conglomeration of a thousand little things. She wanted Holmes suffering the same and Watson helping him work it out. Uh, over the arm of the settee. What could I do but oblige?
Summary: Holmes has one of those days, and Watson has a solution.
Holmes was entirely certain it was going to be a bad day when he fell down the stairs.
Well, no. That was an overstatement. That was a blatant abuse of the facts. Holmes did not fall down the stairs--to say as much implies that he tumbled down all seventeen of the stairs, and even on his worst days he was not nearly so inept. He, in fact, pitched down only three of the them; the last three. The worst three. He managed to catch himself before his face smashed into the floor, but in doing so twisted his wrist at a painful angle. It was still smarting long after he pulled himself upright and seated himself at the breakfast table, irritated and starving.
Watson was not at the table, much to his dismay. It was unlike him to miss breakfast, and Holmes was entirely certain he was not asleep--the bed had been empty, after all. He must have had some errand to tend to. Holmes wished absently that he were around to tend to his wrist, and then dismissed the thought as ridiculous.
He sighed, poured himself a cup of tea, added a splash of milk, and took a sip.
Which, of course, he promptly spit back out.
"MRS. HUDSON," he roared, attempting desperately to get the acrid, sour taste of spoiled milk off of his tongue. It was a losing battle. She came in, glaring at him, and he met her stare for stare.
"I see today is the day you succeed in poisoning me, Nanny," he muttered darkly. "I always knew it would come. I hope you're proud of yourself."
"To think, I've killed you without even meaning to," she returned dryly. "What a disappointment. And yet, even in death, you are animate and unpleasant. How dreadful, Mr. Holmes."
"This milk is spoiled," he spat, still glaring. "Spoiled, Nanny. Don't deny you knew about it."
"Why would I?" she murmured. "You'll hardly believe me if I do, regardless of the truth. A fresh tea tray, then?"
"Don't bother," Holmes growled. "I'll skip breakfast. I don't trust you."
"Good to know some things never change," she sighed. He heard her muttering under her breath as he walked into the bitter winter chill and shut the door behind him.
--
The taste of the spoiled milk lingered with him all morning, flavoring his day all the more sour. He kept tripping over things, which was absolutely ridiculous--Holmes, who never allowed personal bias to color his views, knew perfectly well he was graceful like a cat. He'd hardly tripped a day in his life! And now, everything was a danger; the street-cobbles, the edges of chairs, his own bloody feet. And every time he caught himself he landed on his damned wrist, which throbbed like the dickens, and in all honesty that in and of itself would have been fine. Aggravating, but fine. Deeply, deeply irritating, but fine.
But, as is often the nature of days that begin with tumbling down some of the stairs, he was not nearly so lucky.
His first appointment of the morning was with his brother. Mycroft had sent him a very tersely worded telegram demanding his presence at the Diogenes Club, but Holmes had thought nothing of it; Mycroft's telegraphs were always tersely worded. Holmes did not imagine Mycroft knew how to write a telegraph that was not terse.
The problem with this, of course, was that it was impossible to tell beforehand when he was actually angry.
"I see no reason for you to take this line with me," Holmes snapped, sitting across from Mycroft in the Stranger's Room, a quarter hour into the argument. "Certainly you cannot imagine that I actually wanted to inherit the thing from that old bat, it is hideous and I won't have it in my house."
"Then I can have it?" Mycroft demanded, glaring with steely eyes.
"Yes! Yes!" Holmes cried, throwing up his hands. He hit his sore wrist on the table for his troubles. "For god's sake, yes, it is a clock, an ugly clock that I did not want! You are welcome to it! I have said so from the moment I got here!"
"Keep your voice down," Mycroft hissed, turning purple. "You know the rules of the--"
"Oh for--" Holmes' voice died in his throat as his mouth worked silently in fury. He stood, pushing back from the table. "Hang the damned clock, come take it whenever you like, do not bother me again."
He stalked, furiously, into the main room of the club, seeking exit. Upon making it halfway across the threshold, he failed entirely to see the bump in the carpet and, of course, tripped over it. He was so soundly surprised that the did not even manage to catch himself, but landed flatly across the floor, letting out a loud Oof as the wind was knocked out of him.
He righted himself only to be met with the furious glares of 25 silent men.
"ARGH," Holmes cried, and threw himself from the room as quickly as his feet would allow.
--
Then, damn it all, then it was Mrs. Everly. The old bat was a nuisance in the best of times, but she paid well, and so it was with a mild spring in his step that he entered her London suites. He should have known better than to allow himself the hope.
"Mr. Holmes," she said, when he'd settled himself on her settee, "I must confess that I thought I had a case for you."
"You thought?" he returned, steepling his fingers. "Whatever has changed your mind?"
"Well," she said primly, "when I sent you that letter last week, I rather thought you'd be more prompt in coming to see me. The matter was more than a little urgent, as you well know."
"My dear Mrs. Everly," Holmes said, grinding his teeth, "you had misplaced a bracelet. I was assisting Scotland Yard in a most complicated case of murder--"
"An emerald bracelet, Mr. Holmes," she interrupted, giving him a stern look. "A very valuable emerald bracelet--"
"I do apologize for placing the life of another citizen above--"
"As well you should," she snapped. Holmes ground his teeth some more. "As it happens, I have found someone else to assist me, and I shall no longer be in need of your services."
Holmes blinked at her. "What?" he managed at last. "But--I am the best. You are aware that--"
"Your services are no longer required," she sniffed.
"Who in the devil--"
"It is hardly your business," she said, ignoring his continued speech. Her habit of interrupting him was really most bothersome. "In any case, I have only brought you by to inform you that you needn't continue your line of inquiry. The bracelet has been retrieved, and you are useless to me. Good day to you."
Holmes stared at her. He wanted, very badly, to ask why a simple telegraph wouldn't have sufficed, but he recognized that continuing to hear her prattle would only aggravate him further. Still, he stopped upon reaching the door and turned back, unable to help himself.
"Tell me," he said contemplatively, "was the bracelet in the back of your jewelry case or, as I rather suspect is the case, tangled in the cushions of your sofa? You might consider removing your gems before Mr. Everly comes home, Madame. It would spare you a considerable amount of trouble."
The deep purple she flushed was one of the very few brights spots in his day.
--
He returned to Baker Street. Watson was still absent, and he'd been settled in his armchair for but a moment when Mrs. Hudson showed a very agitated Constable Clark up the stairs. He had a case, and Holmes was required, and Lestrade had insisted--
Ah, well. It was just as well, Holmes supposed, trudging out into the bitter cold again. He'd lost one case today, it would do to take another, no matter how badly he wanted to close his eyes and let his beloved 7% solution tear the trials of the world from him.
However.
Oh, however.
Lestrade had solved the case by the time Holmes arrived. Moreover, he had actually solved it correctly, which was both unheard of and entirely impossible. Desperately, Holmes sought other solutions to the problem, ways that the infernal man could be wrong--he wasn't. Lestrade wasn't wrong. And, in looking desperately over his shoulder for the four horsemen of the apocalypse, Holmes somehow managed to miss the length of rope running along the pier on which they were gathered. He tripped. Again.
Only this time, damn it all, he landed in the incredibly inconveniently placed river.
The experience of being in the river does not bear discussion. It was winter, it was freezing, he couldn't move his legs, he rather thought he was going to drown--which would have been a bloody relief, considering--and he was chilled enough and stunned enough when he was pulled to the surface to imagine it was Watson's hands on his collar, hauling him up. He smiled, eyes closed, at this thought. Watson did always manage to show up when Holmes needed him.
Then he opened his eyes, was greeted by Lestrade's less-than-pleasant visage, and felt the pit of despair in his stomach open into a great chasm of furious agony.
"Bloody buggering sodding--" Holmes tried. It came out rather unintelligible, a string of syllables mangled beyond recognition, which was probably for the best. Lestrade merely sighed, slinging an arm under Holmes' own and dragging him forward.
"Let's get back to the Yard, boys," he called. "And someone call the Doctor, he's the only one likely to be able to handle our friend here when he's 'imself again."
"I am q-q-quite myself," Holmes growled. Well, chattered, really.
"Oh, yes. Right as rain, you are," Lestrade agreed sarcastically. "Come on, Mr. Holmes, let's go."
--
Despite his vehement protests that he wished to be taken home, Lestrade insisted that he did not run a cab service, and Holmes was dragged forcibly to Scotland Yard. He was tossed a blanket that smelled like it had been used for horses and pushed into a decidedly uncomfortable chair, and then left there while the boys went about their business. Constable Clark, who was a decent sort, brought him a cup of tea, but even looking at it reminded Holmes of the sour milk and made his stomach roil unpleasantly. He refused as gently as he was able--which was, admittedly, none too gently--and Clarkie cast him a doubtful glance but vanished.
And then, bless the man, returned with a pipe and tobacco.
"You are the bright spot in this hellish wasteland of a day," Holmes said, taking the pipe and cradling it lovingly. Clarkie flushed, pleased, and handed Holmes a match, which he struck with good cheer and brought toward the collection of shag gathered in front of him.
Then--oh, the fates were against him--a painful cramp shot through his tender wrist. Cursing, Holmes let go of the match. By all rights, it should have bounced against his soaked clothes and been immediately extinguished. But then again, by all rights he should never have gotten out of bed.
It landed on the blanket, of course. The manure-soaked blanket. Predictable, really. It was less than surprising when he caught fire.
"AUGH," Holmes cried, standing and flailing his arms. Constable Clark, looking badly shaken, visibly cast around the room for anything that could be of use. The blaze, though quick to start, was already dying down--his clothes underneath the blanket were soaked through, after all. Clarkie, however, did not realize this, and as such he did little more than add insult to injury when he upended the bucket of water over Holmes' already drenched head.
"Brilliant," Holmes said, wishing the ground would swallow him whole and end this misery once and for all. "Bloody brilliant."
--
He walked back to Baker Street. Lestrade had told him not to, that they'd already sent for Watson, but Holmes chafed at the idea of being gathered up like a truant schoolchild by his flatmate. So he'd stalked off, and now he was out in the grey, chilled winter air, cursing with every sodden, frozen breath.
The sky, ominously, threatened precipitation. He glared up at it balefully.
"Try me," he said, "I bloody dare you. Just try me."
Instead of dropping more water onto his head--which, actually would have been fine, he could not possibly get any wetter--the wind started to blow. It did not cease for the entire walk, and by the time Holmes got inside he could not feel his extremities.
That is, except for his wrist. That still hurt.
Watson was in the sitting room, holding a telegram and putting on his coat. He started when Holmes came through the door.
"Holmes!" he exclaimed. "I was just coming to meet you, I got a telegram--" his voice trailed off and died, and he started with something approaching horror. "My dear man, you look dreadful."
"That is an accurate representation of how I feel, so it is just as well," Holmes snapped. He was not really in the mood to discuss much of anything with the good doctor, who had been absent for the entire day and was, thus, entirely at fault for the way it had gone. "And where have you been?"
"I had an early patient," Watson said, his brow creasing. "Holmes, you are soaked to the skin, why don't you--"
"An early patient," Holmes huffed, sitting down on the settee with a squelching noise. "Must have been quite early. And you managed to avoid waking me, too--how singularly unusual."
"It's not unusual at all," Watson returned, staring. "You sleep like the dead when you actually manage to sleep, you know it as well as I do."
Holmes simply huffed and looked away, and Watson sighed and moved over to him, tangling his hand in Holmes' hair.
"You must have had a very trying day," he tried, "you look--"
"Oh yes," Holmes laughed bitterly. "Tell me once more how dreadful I look, that is sure to lift my spirits. You are a wonder, Dr. Watson."
Watson jerked away, fury coming into his eyes. "Oh," he said dangerously, "so it's like that, is it?"
And Holmes, who was cold and sore and exhausted and miserable, merely glared up at him. "Like what?"
"If it's a fight you want," Watson declared, "it's a fight you shall get."
He stepped out of the room and Holmes huffed. "Coward," he muttered, turning toward the fire and not going to change clothes out of pure spite. When Watson returned a moment later, carrying a small jar Holmes knew all too, his eyes widened.
"You cannot possibly imagine--" he started, staring at it.
"Shut up," Watson growled. And then he was at the settee, hauling Holmes up and throwing him bodily over the arm of it. Despite himself, Holmes shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the chill.
"If you don't wish to discuss it," Watson said, yanking at Holmes' braces, his trousers, until his backside was exposed, "then I shall have to unwind you some other way. You are most unpleasant like this."
Before Holmes even had a chance to respond to that, Watson had bent low, was licking a long, dirty stripe along the curve of his buttocks. Holmes trembled again; Watson was often loathe to do this, and the sensation was nigh overwhelming. He resisted the urge to buck his hips as Watson drove his tongue deeper, exploratory, eager.
All too soon, the sensation was gone, replaced almost immediately by a lube-slicked finger. Holmes groaned and tightened around it, felt his eyes roll into his head as Watson inserted the second one. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but then Watson was leaning close, pressed against his back, working his fingers with his mouth next to Holmes' ear.
"I gather you've had an unpleasant go of it," he said calmly. "Mrs. Hudson is out, the doors are locked. You may be as loud as you please; might help you work off some…tension."
At that last he drove his fingers in, hard. The edge of his pointer grazed Holmes' prostate and he moaned aloud, releasing a little of the fury that had built up in him over the course of the atrocious day.
"That's it," Watson said, scissoring his fingers apart with his usual careful precision. "Give me a minute to finish--"
"Do it," Holmes gasped. "I'm ready, I'm fine, just--"
"You're sure?" Watson asked, spreading his fingers again. Holmes buried his face in the cushioned settee arm to keep from screaming in frustration.
"Yes," he hissed. Watson kissed his shoulder lightly and broke away, and then--oh, then--
Well, terrible though the day had been, there was no sensation he enjoyed quite as much as being filled entirely by John Watson's cock. He tightened his whole body around it, riding the rough wave of Watson's replying staccato breath. And then Watson was moving, pounding into him--fucking him, rough and desperate, agonizingly, unbearably good.
"We are alone," Watson reminded him, choking a little on it. "You may feel free to--"
He got his angle right and Holmes, normally nearly silent in the bedroom, cried out in pleasure. He got a rewarding gasp from Watson, and so he made the noise again--a loud, drawn out, ragged moan, decibels louder than he usually dared to go.
"Yes," Watson hissed, increasing his speed, "oh, god, Holmes--"
And suddenly Holmes couldn't shut his mouth, couldn't stop the syllables from falling, unbidden, from his lips. Watson was above him, pounding him hard and fast, slamming his dripping wet body into the arm of the settee, and he screamed his pleasure until he came, dirtying his trouser front. And then he kept screaming, crying out anything that came to mind--Watson's name, the color of the bloody walls--until Watson was gasping and writhing and collapsing against his back, spent.
His voice was nearly gone, which was about par for the course, but he felt considerably less indignant about it than he had about everything else all day.
"Now," Watson said, after enough time had passed that they could breathe again, "let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
Wearily, Holmes trudged up the stairs behind him. It was only just evening, a little past dinner time, but he felt like he could sleep for a year. He longed idly for a chance to indulge in his cocaine, but he knew it would bother Watson, and in any case the effort of even opening the morocco case sounded monumental to him. He settled for allowing Watson to strip him, for taking the cool, dry clothes that were pressed into his hands, for being pushed indelicately towards the bed.
He tripped on his way to it, of course, but Watson steadied him before he could fall.
"So," Watson said, when Holmes was entirely settled, "do you want to tell me about it?"
And, to his surprise, Holmes did. Feeling rather ridiculous about it all as he hashed it back out, he recounted the spoiled milk, his brother's behavior, Mrs. Everly's dismissal, the incident with Lestrade, the dunk in the river, the fire, the water, and the wind on his walk home. He lingered briefly on every sodding trip-up, and Watson looked at his wrist, declaring it a very light sprain. When he was finished, he sighed, staring up at the ceiling.
"I suppose it was all rather trivial, in the grand scheme," he said. Watson laughed out loud.
"You caught fire, Holmes. I think most men would call that alone a bad day."
Holmes shrugged idly, and Watson--who had been absent for hours but who surely wanted dinner, who could not possibly be tired--sighed softly and slid under the covers, resting his head next to Holmes' own.
"Tomorrow will be better," he said softly, tracing an absent pattern on Holmes' shoulder with his fingertip. And Holmes--who had had a bad enough go of it that he felt he deserved it--turned over, burying his face in the crook of Watson's neck.
"I don't intend to leave the house," he said crossly, "so I imagine it will have to be."
He fell asleep nearly instantly, lulled by the sound of Watson's soft laughter. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad day after all.
Everyone waiting on answers to your TA!Holmes & Waston questions: they're coming! The boys got distracted. It's really nice being able go out again, according to Holmes. Watson says he misses avoiding the clubs, but then he looks at Holmes like he's the only one in the room, so I don't think he's serious.
OKAY. FIC ONE.
Title: Martyrdom of Pin Pricks
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 3399
Warnings: Rimming. Anal sex. Holmes falling into the Thames again, because I love to soak that man and I cannot help myself.
Author's Note: A fill over at shkinkmeme, where mothergoddamn was having the kind of atrocious day that is just a conglomeration of a thousand little things. She wanted Holmes suffering the same and Watson helping him work it out. Uh, over the arm of the settee. What could I do but oblige?
Summary: Holmes has one of those days, and Watson has a solution.
Holmes was entirely certain it was going to be a bad day when he fell down the stairs.
Well, no. That was an overstatement. That was a blatant abuse of the facts. Holmes did not fall down the stairs--to say as much implies that he tumbled down all seventeen of the stairs, and even on his worst days he was not nearly so inept. He, in fact, pitched down only three of the them; the last three. The worst three. He managed to catch himself before his face smashed into the floor, but in doing so twisted his wrist at a painful angle. It was still smarting long after he pulled himself upright and seated himself at the breakfast table, irritated and starving.
Watson was not at the table, much to his dismay. It was unlike him to miss breakfast, and Holmes was entirely certain he was not asleep--the bed had been empty, after all. He must have had some errand to tend to. Holmes wished absently that he were around to tend to his wrist, and then dismissed the thought as ridiculous.
He sighed, poured himself a cup of tea, added a splash of milk, and took a sip.
Which, of course, he promptly spit back out.
"MRS. HUDSON," he roared, attempting desperately to get the acrid, sour taste of spoiled milk off of his tongue. It was a losing battle. She came in, glaring at him, and he met her stare for stare.
"I see today is the day you succeed in poisoning me, Nanny," he muttered darkly. "I always knew it would come. I hope you're proud of yourself."
"To think, I've killed you without even meaning to," she returned dryly. "What a disappointment. And yet, even in death, you are animate and unpleasant. How dreadful, Mr. Holmes."
"This milk is spoiled," he spat, still glaring. "Spoiled, Nanny. Don't deny you knew about it."
"Why would I?" she murmured. "You'll hardly believe me if I do, regardless of the truth. A fresh tea tray, then?"
"Don't bother," Holmes growled. "I'll skip breakfast. I don't trust you."
"Good to know some things never change," she sighed. He heard her muttering under her breath as he walked into the bitter winter chill and shut the door behind him.
--
The taste of the spoiled milk lingered with him all morning, flavoring his day all the more sour. He kept tripping over things, which was absolutely ridiculous--Holmes, who never allowed personal bias to color his views, knew perfectly well he was graceful like a cat. He'd hardly tripped a day in his life! And now, everything was a danger; the street-cobbles, the edges of chairs, his own bloody feet. And every time he caught himself he landed on his damned wrist, which throbbed like the dickens, and in all honesty that in and of itself would have been fine. Aggravating, but fine. Deeply, deeply irritating, but fine.
But, as is often the nature of days that begin with tumbling down some of the stairs, he was not nearly so lucky.
His first appointment of the morning was with his brother. Mycroft had sent him a very tersely worded telegram demanding his presence at the Diogenes Club, but Holmes had thought nothing of it; Mycroft's telegraphs were always tersely worded. Holmes did not imagine Mycroft knew how to write a telegraph that was not terse.
The problem with this, of course, was that it was impossible to tell beforehand when he was actually angry.
"I see no reason for you to take this line with me," Holmes snapped, sitting across from Mycroft in the Stranger's Room, a quarter hour into the argument. "Certainly you cannot imagine that I actually wanted to inherit the thing from that old bat, it is hideous and I won't have it in my house."
"Then I can have it?" Mycroft demanded, glaring with steely eyes.
"Yes! Yes!" Holmes cried, throwing up his hands. He hit his sore wrist on the table for his troubles. "For god's sake, yes, it is a clock, an ugly clock that I did not want! You are welcome to it! I have said so from the moment I got here!"
"Keep your voice down," Mycroft hissed, turning purple. "You know the rules of the--"
"Oh for--" Holmes' voice died in his throat as his mouth worked silently in fury. He stood, pushing back from the table. "Hang the damned clock, come take it whenever you like, do not bother me again."
He stalked, furiously, into the main room of the club, seeking exit. Upon making it halfway across the threshold, he failed entirely to see the bump in the carpet and, of course, tripped over it. He was so soundly surprised that the did not even manage to catch himself, but landed flatly across the floor, letting out a loud Oof as the wind was knocked out of him.
He righted himself only to be met with the furious glares of 25 silent men.
"ARGH," Holmes cried, and threw himself from the room as quickly as his feet would allow.
--
Then, damn it all, then it was Mrs. Everly. The old bat was a nuisance in the best of times, but she paid well, and so it was with a mild spring in his step that he entered her London suites. He should have known better than to allow himself the hope.
"Mr. Holmes," she said, when he'd settled himself on her settee, "I must confess that I thought I had a case for you."
"You thought?" he returned, steepling his fingers. "Whatever has changed your mind?"
"Well," she said primly, "when I sent you that letter last week, I rather thought you'd be more prompt in coming to see me. The matter was more than a little urgent, as you well know."
"My dear Mrs. Everly," Holmes said, grinding his teeth, "you had misplaced a bracelet. I was assisting Scotland Yard in a most complicated case of murder--"
"An emerald bracelet, Mr. Holmes," she interrupted, giving him a stern look. "A very valuable emerald bracelet--"
"I do apologize for placing the life of another citizen above--"
"As well you should," she snapped. Holmes ground his teeth some more. "As it happens, I have found someone else to assist me, and I shall no longer be in need of your services."
Holmes blinked at her. "What?" he managed at last. "But--I am the best. You are aware that--"
"Your services are no longer required," she sniffed.
"Who in the devil--"
"It is hardly your business," she said, ignoring his continued speech. Her habit of interrupting him was really most bothersome. "In any case, I have only brought you by to inform you that you needn't continue your line of inquiry. The bracelet has been retrieved, and you are useless to me. Good day to you."
Holmes stared at her. He wanted, very badly, to ask why a simple telegraph wouldn't have sufficed, but he recognized that continuing to hear her prattle would only aggravate him further. Still, he stopped upon reaching the door and turned back, unable to help himself.
"Tell me," he said contemplatively, "was the bracelet in the back of your jewelry case or, as I rather suspect is the case, tangled in the cushions of your sofa? You might consider removing your gems before Mr. Everly comes home, Madame. It would spare you a considerable amount of trouble."
The deep purple she flushed was one of the very few brights spots in his day.
--
He returned to Baker Street. Watson was still absent, and he'd been settled in his armchair for but a moment when Mrs. Hudson showed a very agitated Constable Clark up the stairs. He had a case, and Holmes was required, and Lestrade had insisted--
Ah, well. It was just as well, Holmes supposed, trudging out into the bitter cold again. He'd lost one case today, it would do to take another, no matter how badly he wanted to close his eyes and let his beloved 7% solution tear the trials of the world from him.
However.
Oh, however.
Lestrade had solved the case by the time Holmes arrived. Moreover, he had actually solved it correctly, which was both unheard of and entirely impossible. Desperately, Holmes sought other solutions to the problem, ways that the infernal man could be wrong--he wasn't. Lestrade wasn't wrong. And, in looking desperately over his shoulder for the four horsemen of the apocalypse, Holmes somehow managed to miss the length of rope running along the pier on which they were gathered. He tripped. Again.
Only this time, damn it all, he landed in the incredibly inconveniently placed river.
The experience of being in the river does not bear discussion. It was winter, it was freezing, he couldn't move his legs, he rather thought he was going to drown--which would have been a bloody relief, considering--and he was chilled enough and stunned enough when he was pulled to the surface to imagine it was Watson's hands on his collar, hauling him up. He smiled, eyes closed, at this thought. Watson did always manage to show up when Holmes needed him.
Then he opened his eyes, was greeted by Lestrade's less-than-pleasant visage, and felt the pit of despair in his stomach open into a great chasm of furious agony.
"Bloody buggering sodding--" Holmes tried. It came out rather unintelligible, a string of syllables mangled beyond recognition, which was probably for the best. Lestrade merely sighed, slinging an arm under Holmes' own and dragging him forward.
"Let's get back to the Yard, boys," he called. "And someone call the Doctor, he's the only one likely to be able to handle our friend here when he's 'imself again."
"I am q-q-quite myself," Holmes growled. Well, chattered, really.
"Oh, yes. Right as rain, you are," Lestrade agreed sarcastically. "Come on, Mr. Holmes, let's go."
--
Despite his vehement protests that he wished to be taken home, Lestrade insisted that he did not run a cab service, and Holmes was dragged forcibly to Scotland Yard. He was tossed a blanket that smelled like it had been used for horses and pushed into a decidedly uncomfortable chair, and then left there while the boys went about their business. Constable Clark, who was a decent sort, brought him a cup of tea, but even looking at it reminded Holmes of the sour milk and made his stomach roil unpleasantly. He refused as gently as he was able--which was, admittedly, none too gently--and Clarkie cast him a doubtful glance but vanished.
And then, bless the man, returned with a pipe and tobacco.
"You are the bright spot in this hellish wasteland of a day," Holmes said, taking the pipe and cradling it lovingly. Clarkie flushed, pleased, and handed Holmes a match, which he struck with good cheer and brought toward the collection of shag gathered in front of him.
Then--oh, the fates were against him--a painful cramp shot through his tender wrist. Cursing, Holmes let go of the match. By all rights, it should have bounced against his soaked clothes and been immediately extinguished. But then again, by all rights he should never have gotten out of bed.
It landed on the blanket, of course. The manure-soaked blanket. Predictable, really. It was less than surprising when he caught fire.
"AUGH," Holmes cried, standing and flailing his arms. Constable Clark, looking badly shaken, visibly cast around the room for anything that could be of use. The blaze, though quick to start, was already dying down--his clothes underneath the blanket were soaked through, after all. Clarkie, however, did not realize this, and as such he did little more than add insult to injury when he upended the bucket of water over Holmes' already drenched head.
"Brilliant," Holmes said, wishing the ground would swallow him whole and end this misery once and for all. "Bloody brilliant."
--
He walked back to Baker Street. Lestrade had told him not to, that they'd already sent for Watson, but Holmes chafed at the idea of being gathered up like a truant schoolchild by his flatmate. So he'd stalked off, and now he was out in the grey, chilled winter air, cursing with every sodden, frozen breath.
The sky, ominously, threatened precipitation. He glared up at it balefully.
"Try me," he said, "I bloody dare you. Just try me."
Instead of dropping more water onto his head--which, actually would have been fine, he could not possibly get any wetter--the wind started to blow. It did not cease for the entire walk, and by the time Holmes got inside he could not feel his extremities.
That is, except for his wrist. That still hurt.
Watson was in the sitting room, holding a telegram and putting on his coat. He started when Holmes came through the door.
"Holmes!" he exclaimed. "I was just coming to meet you, I got a telegram--" his voice trailed off and died, and he started with something approaching horror. "My dear man, you look dreadful."
"That is an accurate representation of how I feel, so it is just as well," Holmes snapped. He was not really in the mood to discuss much of anything with the good doctor, who had been absent for the entire day and was, thus, entirely at fault for the way it had gone. "And where have you been?"
"I had an early patient," Watson said, his brow creasing. "Holmes, you are soaked to the skin, why don't you--"
"An early patient," Holmes huffed, sitting down on the settee with a squelching noise. "Must have been quite early. And you managed to avoid waking me, too--how singularly unusual."
"It's not unusual at all," Watson returned, staring. "You sleep like the dead when you actually manage to sleep, you know it as well as I do."
Holmes simply huffed and looked away, and Watson sighed and moved over to him, tangling his hand in Holmes' hair.
"You must have had a very trying day," he tried, "you look--"
"Oh yes," Holmes laughed bitterly. "Tell me once more how dreadful I look, that is sure to lift my spirits. You are a wonder, Dr. Watson."
Watson jerked away, fury coming into his eyes. "Oh," he said dangerously, "so it's like that, is it?"
And Holmes, who was cold and sore and exhausted and miserable, merely glared up at him. "Like what?"
"If it's a fight you want," Watson declared, "it's a fight you shall get."
He stepped out of the room and Holmes huffed. "Coward," he muttered, turning toward the fire and not going to change clothes out of pure spite. When Watson returned a moment later, carrying a small jar Holmes knew all too, his eyes widened.
"You cannot possibly imagine--" he started, staring at it.
"Shut up," Watson growled. And then he was at the settee, hauling Holmes up and throwing him bodily over the arm of it. Despite himself, Holmes shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the chill.
"If you don't wish to discuss it," Watson said, yanking at Holmes' braces, his trousers, until his backside was exposed, "then I shall have to unwind you some other way. You are most unpleasant like this."
Before Holmes even had a chance to respond to that, Watson had bent low, was licking a long, dirty stripe along the curve of his buttocks. Holmes trembled again; Watson was often loathe to do this, and the sensation was nigh overwhelming. He resisted the urge to buck his hips as Watson drove his tongue deeper, exploratory, eager.
All too soon, the sensation was gone, replaced almost immediately by a lube-slicked finger. Holmes groaned and tightened around it, felt his eyes roll into his head as Watson inserted the second one. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but then Watson was leaning close, pressed against his back, working his fingers with his mouth next to Holmes' ear.
"I gather you've had an unpleasant go of it," he said calmly. "Mrs. Hudson is out, the doors are locked. You may be as loud as you please; might help you work off some…tension."
At that last he drove his fingers in, hard. The edge of his pointer grazed Holmes' prostate and he moaned aloud, releasing a little of the fury that had built up in him over the course of the atrocious day.
"That's it," Watson said, scissoring his fingers apart with his usual careful precision. "Give me a minute to finish--"
"Do it," Holmes gasped. "I'm ready, I'm fine, just--"
"You're sure?" Watson asked, spreading his fingers again. Holmes buried his face in the cushioned settee arm to keep from screaming in frustration.
"Yes," he hissed. Watson kissed his shoulder lightly and broke away, and then--oh, then--
Well, terrible though the day had been, there was no sensation he enjoyed quite as much as being filled entirely by John Watson's cock. He tightened his whole body around it, riding the rough wave of Watson's replying staccato breath. And then Watson was moving, pounding into him--fucking him, rough and desperate, agonizingly, unbearably good.
"We are alone," Watson reminded him, choking a little on it. "You may feel free to--"
He got his angle right and Holmes, normally nearly silent in the bedroom, cried out in pleasure. He got a rewarding gasp from Watson, and so he made the noise again--a loud, drawn out, ragged moan, decibels louder than he usually dared to go.
"Yes," Watson hissed, increasing his speed, "oh, god, Holmes--"
And suddenly Holmes couldn't shut his mouth, couldn't stop the syllables from falling, unbidden, from his lips. Watson was above him, pounding him hard and fast, slamming his dripping wet body into the arm of the settee, and he screamed his pleasure until he came, dirtying his trouser front. And then he kept screaming, crying out anything that came to mind--Watson's name, the color of the bloody walls--until Watson was gasping and writhing and collapsing against his back, spent.
His voice was nearly gone, which was about par for the course, but he felt considerably less indignant about it than he had about everything else all day.
"Now," Watson said, after enough time had passed that they could breathe again, "let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
Wearily, Holmes trudged up the stairs behind him. It was only just evening, a little past dinner time, but he felt like he could sleep for a year. He longed idly for a chance to indulge in his cocaine, but he knew it would bother Watson, and in any case the effort of even opening the morocco case sounded monumental to him. He settled for allowing Watson to strip him, for taking the cool, dry clothes that were pressed into his hands, for being pushed indelicately towards the bed.
He tripped on his way to it, of course, but Watson steadied him before he could fall.
"So," Watson said, when Holmes was entirely settled, "do you want to tell me about it?"
And, to his surprise, Holmes did. Feeling rather ridiculous about it all as he hashed it back out, he recounted the spoiled milk, his brother's behavior, Mrs. Everly's dismissal, the incident with Lestrade, the dunk in the river, the fire, the water, and the wind on his walk home. He lingered briefly on every sodding trip-up, and Watson looked at his wrist, declaring it a very light sprain. When he was finished, he sighed, staring up at the ceiling.
"I suppose it was all rather trivial, in the grand scheme," he said. Watson laughed out loud.
"You caught fire, Holmes. I think most men would call that alone a bad day."
Holmes shrugged idly, and Watson--who had been absent for hours but who surely wanted dinner, who could not possibly be tired--sighed softly and slid under the covers, resting his head next to Holmes' own.
"Tomorrow will be better," he said softly, tracing an absent pattern on Holmes' shoulder with his fingertip. And Holmes--who had had a bad enough go of it that he felt he deserved it--turned over, burying his face in the crook of Watson's neck.
"I don't intend to leave the house," he said crossly, "so I imagine it will have to be."
He fell asleep nearly instantly, lulled by the sound of Watson's soft laughter. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad day after all.