Fic for deepforestowl: The Very Best Year
Title:The Very Best Year
Author: mme_saberage
Recipient: deepforestowl
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson (Book or Granada!Verse)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: occasional black moods
Summary: A year in porny vignettes. Featuring silent nights, character studies, most unspeakable acts, a violin concerto, holiday cheer and quite possibly; even love.
Notes Thanks to my amazing beta [redacted]. When she kisses a frog, it turns into a Victorian gentleman.
He comes to me at night.
It is frantic touching or soft caressing, it is moans and huffs and sweat and fingers clenched together, it is shaking and holding and never letting go; until we do, and he leaves as silently as he had come, never staying until the sun comes up.
We never talk about it during the day.
Sometimes I wonder if it is all just my mind, playing tricks on me in the darkness of my nights. Until I hear the sound of the door again, footsteps approaching my bed; I feel his forehead against mine, and, I know that if nothing else in the world is real, this is.
+++
The first time he snuck into my room was in February, after an especially exhausting case. I was too tired and tense to sleep, staring at the faint pattern of light upon the ceiling when I heard someone enter.
"Holmes?"
"Shh," he hushed me, and it was only because my eyes were used to the dark that I recognised his form and saw him soundlessly approaching my bed. He did not stop there, but got in with me, under the blanket, and I felt his fingers tracing my chest.
"Holm..! " I exclaimed, startled, and tried to sit up, but he softly put a finger on my mouth to silence me.
’So he knows after all,’ I thought, shivering as I felt long, delicate fingers unbuttoning my night-clothes.
I had never truly believed that my preferences could be hidden from the great detective, but as he never commented on them, I wholeheartedly believed that he knew (and, if he did not approve, then at least he did not condemn) but had decided not to raise the matter.
So, this had been the very last thing I could have thought to imagine. And at that particular moment in time, I could not believe it still.
I had never seen Holmes as someone who would indulge in sexuality, especially not like this, and not with me. It is true that there have been fantasies, but I have always pushed them as far away as possible. I had felt it improper to picture my flatmate in such manner.
And indeed, our first night together was not like any fantasy I’d ever had. He did not permit me to speak, or move, or touch him in return; his hand roaming under my nightclothes, almost clinically bringing me to completion.
Who knows what had gotten into him. Was this an experiment? Curiosity?
I was beyond caring at that moment. As impersonal as this encounter was supposed to be, I could still feel Holmes’ form under the thin fabric of his dressing gown, feel him leaning against me, his fingers on my erection, and suddenly a thought flashed my mind: maybe I had not missed this part of Holmes’ personality before? Maybe this was new to him, his first time touching another man in this way.
I remember I came hard that night, Holmes capturing my release in a handkerchief to avoid any mess. He disappeared before I had come to my senses again.
Next day, he pretended nothing had happened.
+++
It soon became a habit. I could never tell which nights he would choose to be with me, but the intervals became shorter. Every night I would fall asleep to my heart pounding at the thought of my friend and the possibility he would visit me later.
+++
There were rules. We never established them, but we were both bound to them as if they were written in stone.
First: Holmes would seek me out, never the other way around.
Second: no lights, no talking. Our actions were unspeakable, at least for Holmes, and in the darkness we could pretend this to be only just more than a guilty dream. What we had was fragile; harsh sound or light could make it break, or worse yet, make it real.
Third: Nothing changes. During the day, we behave just the same as we always did. Not a single word is spoken about it. No looks are cast differently. Nothing changes.
+++
I’ve always known my friend to be reluctant to touch. In his everyday life, he dislikes being touched when he doesn’t expect it; it irritates him, maybe because it breaks his chain of thought. When he decides to touch someone, it is always out of a necessity, be it the exchange of politeness in shaking someone’s hand or guiding someone when vocal directions would be insufficient.
It had always been different with me. He would not shy away when I brushed accidentally against him, and I had known him to even pat my shoulder every once in while. There was still fabric between us, then, though.
When we started sleeping together however, every night brought new wonder.
At first, he feathered over my skin with nothing but his fingertips. I remember the first time he actually touched me with his palm (on the soft skin of my stomach), the first time he brought our lips together for a moment, the first time he opened up his dressing gown and pressed our naked forms together.
Every touch originated from him, was measured and calculated. I will forever recall the thrill when I first touched his chest and he would let me explore his body. He caught my hand when it became too much, and immediately I obliged him. I was rewarded with more and more trust night after night, and eventually he allowed me to touch him most intimately. He huffed softly while I did so, and made the most peculiar sound as he came, filling me with unknown pride and joy.
+++
It was a starless summer night when the streetlamp outside my window was in disrepair. That, coupled with the thick drapes, covered my chamber in such blackness that I couldn’t even see my own hand before my eyes.
It was that night that Holmes allowed me to kiss his body, explore every part of him with my lips and my tongue, documenting all his sensitive spots in my memory forever. His body grew hot, skin slick with sweat. He startled and let out a long hiss as I brought his erection to my mouth. All the while he did not stop shaking, and his fingers curled in my hair desperately. If he hadn’t vowed to silence, I’m sure he would have asked me not to stop, not ever to stop.
It wasn’t necessary to tell me.
+++
By September, he chuckled sometimes. When things happened that could have been embarrassing, but somehow were not, like accidentally crushing our teeth together or brushing a ticklish spot while we were doing something intimate.
Then he would chuckle softly, brush his hand through my hair and we would go on where we left off.
+++
One time he cried out as he came, one word slicing the silence. Immediately he bit the sound back hard, but it was too late. The moment he had spent himself he was on his feet and leaving, ignoring that I had not finished yet, something he never usually does.
I did not hold it against him.
Alone, I brought myself to release with the sound of my name still hovering in the air.
+++
I love being a doctor for several reasons: one of them being the fact that it brings with it an increased knowledge of the human anatomy.
On one of the special occasions Holmes would allow me to touch his most private areas, I lay between his legs, feeling him shift beneath me as I rubbed his prostate with my slick fingers. I knew I would reach orgasm any time now just by the incredible arousing soft moans that escaped his lips. His sounds grew desperate, and though he tried to restrain himself, he kept bucking against me over and over.
I felt his hand on my upper arm, urging me upwards, and I knew he desperately wanted me to take him, and I also knew that this was it, that if I would go on teasing him like this, twisting and rubbing and brushing, then I could break his defences, then I could make him beg.
I also knew what Holmes would think about this afterwards, what he would think about himself, and so as his hand squeezed my arm hard again, I gave in and positioned myself above him, entering him carefully. It took us both no more than a handful of thrusts to reach release.
+++
His black moods do not spare our shared nights.
I don’t know what triggers it, but sometimes he can’t stand to be touched. He still comes to me, and sometimes he tortures me by pleasuring me in various ways without allowing me as much as to run my fingers through his hair in return.
I can live with that, though, if only occasionally.
There are, however, also nights I dread. Sometimes he demands to be touched, but not caressed.
I want to worship every inch of his body, always proving to him how precious he is to me, but at times, he cannot seem to take it.
I always know immediately when it is a night like this, because everything in his posture is urgent, even in the dark he hardly looks into my face for longer than a moment, and he wastes no time to exchange niceties.
There is an unknown shyness in his gaze, and a plea, though in the darkness I can never be sure. All I can see is that he looks both strong and vulnerable at the same time, and I sense that it takes him much to ask this of me, and that I would crush him if I refused.
He doesn’t touch me then, he expects me to stroke myself hard on my own, fast, while he strips and positions himself on his knees and elbows in front of me.
He has no patience and often starts pressing against me before I’m ready. I would then reach for a convenient means to lubricate, his whole manner exuding disapproval though he knows there is no point arguing; I would never enter him without preparation, even if he asked me to.
As soon as he feels the tip of my cock touching his entrance, he pushes back roughly, and I hiss; this is too much, too fast, and if I say that, how must it feel for him?
He expects me to take him in hard, deep strokes, angrily pushing my hands away if I dare resting them anywhere but at his hip. He speeds up the pace if he feels I don’t push hard enough, and I can’t help thinking that he can't possibly enjoy this.
For his sake, I wish I liked it better, so it wouldn’t take me so long to finish.
He doesn’t make a sound through all of it. Sometimes I think he strokes himself while I take him; his movements as rough and ungentle as he demands mine to be. Other times he does not. I am quite unsure as to whether he reaches orgasm during these enconters and I wonder why he would seek them out.
Finally, the friction always pushes me over the edge, and as soon as I pull out, he takes up his dressing gown and leaves.
Fortunately, these encounters are sparse, because I don’t think I could bring myself to do this more often. I made it a rule to never give in to this after we have had an argument or I witnessed a case gone awry; I could not bear to be an instrument of his self-punishment.
My wish is to see him happy, I want him to know that - yes, that I’ve come to love him, and that I accept him, all aspects of his person; his greatness and his dark sides equally.
I desperately wish he could do so, too. I cannot know if anything I say or do could be enough to ensure that, but I do know I want to spend my life trying.
+++
On a cold December night, when rare snowflakes were chased through the streets by the howling wind, he came to me and immediately buried himself under my sheets. I know he has a hard time in Winter, his fingers especially are hardly ever warm.
I reached for his icy hands with the intention to press them against my chest until they were just as heated as my own skin.
"Come here," I said out loud and immediately froze. The silence was defeating, I did not even dare to breathe.
It had been nothing but a reflex; so thoughtless, stupid. What had I done?
I heard Holmes swallow. Then he slowly reached out and laid his hands in mine as I had requested.
+++
In the holiday season, something peculiar happened: my friend fell asleep in my bed. Not only was he next to me, but with his head actually nestling against my neck. His hair was damp and tickled me, and I could feel him breathing peacefully against my skin. Though my arm felt as if it would not forgive me to stay in this twisted position for much longer, I did not dare to move an inch. I wished I could stay awake until sunset, wished I could open my eyes to the sight of him curled up against me in the morning light.
When I woke up, he was already gone.
+++
I never know how to feel about Christmas. All the things I’d naturally love about it are only precious if one can share them.
As the date approached, I thought that maybe, this year, I could.
+++
Holmes and I stayed at Baker Street over Christmas. Mrs Hudson had decked out the living room, the smell of the holidays met your nose whenever you entered.
Holmes had taken up the habit to always make sure the fire in our chimney was always burning, warming us up when we retreated from the snowy street to our cosy home.
On Christmas Night, we had a delicious meal, a brandy afterwards, and then Holmes played for me on his violin.
I dozed off to the sound of the cracking fire and the festive tune of Bach.
When I woke again, the fire had almost burned down, and Holmes sat on the settee, arms tugged around his knees, sipping another brandy and eying me kindly.
"Welcome back, my dear doctor," he smiled.
"Oh, Holmes!" I exclaimed sleepily. "This was a delightful evening. Thank you very much for spending it with me."
I stretched and glanced at the clock.
"Oh dear, so late already. I will retire for the night."
"Very well, my friend. Have a good night," he answered.
I stopped at the door and turned back to see my friend watching the flames in the fireplace.
"Holmes," I said. I realised the pause that followed was too long, but my friend did not look away from the fire and stayed silent.
I tried again. "Holmes. Your room ought to be freezing tonight. You could... I mean. Just to sleep."
Even through the dizziness caused by the brandy and the nap I was aware I was making a fool of myself. Just as I was about the dismiss it, apologise even, Holmes spoke up.
"I will."
Just that.
"You..? Oh. Oh, right. I’ll... I’ll wait for you in my chambers then."
And so I do. I still can't quite believe it, but Sherlock Holmes is not known to lie.
As I rest in my bed waiting for him, memories of the passing year fill my head, as well as thoughts of the New Year soon to start.
I feel there is a high chance it is going to be the best year yet.
Author: mme_saberage
Recipient: deepforestowl
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson (Book or Granada!Verse)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: occasional black moods
Summary: A year in porny vignettes. Featuring silent nights, character studies, most unspeakable acts, a violin concerto, holiday cheer and quite possibly; even love.
Notes Thanks to my amazing beta [redacted]. When she kisses a frog, it turns into a Victorian gentleman.
He comes to me at night.
It is frantic touching or soft caressing, it is moans and huffs and sweat and fingers clenched together, it is shaking and holding and never letting go; until we do, and he leaves as silently as he had come, never staying until the sun comes up.
We never talk about it during the day.
Sometimes I wonder if it is all just my mind, playing tricks on me in the darkness of my nights. Until I hear the sound of the door again, footsteps approaching my bed; I feel his forehead against mine, and, I know that if nothing else in the world is real, this is.
+++
The first time he snuck into my room was in February, after an especially exhausting case. I was too tired and tense to sleep, staring at the faint pattern of light upon the ceiling when I heard someone enter.
"Holmes?"
"Shh," he hushed me, and it was only because my eyes were used to the dark that I recognised his form and saw him soundlessly approaching my bed. He did not stop there, but got in with me, under the blanket, and I felt his fingers tracing my chest.
"Holm..! " I exclaimed, startled, and tried to sit up, but he softly put a finger on my mouth to silence me.
’So he knows after all,’ I thought, shivering as I felt long, delicate fingers unbuttoning my night-clothes.
I had never truly believed that my preferences could be hidden from the great detective, but as he never commented on them, I wholeheartedly believed that he knew (and, if he did not approve, then at least he did not condemn) but had decided not to raise the matter.
So, this had been the very last thing I could have thought to imagine. And at that particular moment in time, I could not believe it still.
I had never seen Holmes as someone who would indulge in sexuality, especially not like this, and not with me. It is true that there have been fantasies, but I have always pushed them as far away as possible. I had felt it improper to picture my flatmate in such manner.
And indeed, our first night together was not like any fantasy I’d ever had. He did not permit me to speak, or move, or touch him in return; his hand roaming under my nightclothes, almost clinically bringing me to completion.
Who knows what had gotten into him. Was this an experiment? Curiosity?
I was beyond caring at that moment. As impersonal as this encounter was supposed to be, I could still feel Holmes’ form under the thin fabric of his dressing gown, feel him leaning against me, his fingers on my erection, and suddenly a thought flashed my mind: maybe I had not missed this part of Holmes’ personality before? Maybe this was new to him, his first time touching another man in this way.
I remember I came hard that night, Holmes capturing my release in a handkerchief to avoid any mess. He disappeared before I had come to my senses again.
Next day, he pretended nothing had happened.
+++
It soon became a habit. I could never tell which nights he would choose to be with me, but the intervals became shorter. Every night I would fall asleep to my heart pounding at the thought of my friend and the possibility he would visit me later.
+++
There were rules. We never established them, but we were both bound to them as if they were written in stone.
First: Holmes would seek me out, never the other way around.
Second: no lights, no talking. Our actions were unspeakable, at least for Holmes, and in the darkness we could pretend this to be only just more than a guilty dream. What we had was fragile; harsh sound or light could make it break, or worse yet, make it real.
Third: Nothing changes. During the day, we behave just the same as we always did. Not a single word is spoken about it. No looks are cast differently. Nothing changes.
+++
I’ve always known my friend to be reluctant to touch. In his everyday life, he dislikes being touched when he doesn’t expect it; it irritates him, maybe because it breaks his chain of thought. When he decides to touch someone, it is always out of a necessity, be it the exchange of politeness in shaking someone’s hand or guiding someone when vocal directions would be insufficient.
It had always been different with me. He would not shy away when I brushed accidentally against him, and I had known him to even pat my shoulder every once in while. There was still fabric between us, then, though.
When we started sleeping together however, every night brought new wonder.
At first, he feathered over my skin with nothing but his fingertips. I remember the first time he actually touched me with his palm (on the soft skin of my stomach), the first time he brought our lips together for a moment, the first time he opened up his dressing gown and pressed our naked forms together.
Every touch originated from him, was measured and calculated. I will forever recall the thrill when I first touched his chest and he would let me explore his body. He caught my hand when it became too much, and immediately I obliged him. I was rewarded with more and more trust night after night, and eventually he allowed me to touch him most intimately. He huffed softly while I did so, and made the most peculiar sound as he came, filling me with unknown pride and joy.
+++
It was a starless summer night when the streetlamp outside my window was in disrepair. That, coupled with the thick drapes, covered my chamber in such blackness that I couldn’t even see my own hand before my eyes.
It was that night that Holmes allowed me to kiss his body, explore every part of him with my lips and my tongue, documenting all his sensitive spots in my memory forever. His body grew hot, skin slick with sweat. He startled and let out a long hiss as I brought his erection to my mouth. All the while he did not stop shaking, and his fingers curled in my hair desperately. If he hadn’t vowed to silence, I’m sure he would have asked me not to stop, not ever to stop.
It wasn’t necessary to tell me.
+++
By September, he chuckled sometimes. When things happened that could have been embarrassing, but somehow were not, like accidentally crushing our teeth together or brushing a ticklish spot while we were doing something intimate.
Then he would chuckle softly, brush his hand through my hair and we would go on where we left off.
+++
One time he cried out as he came, one word slicing the silence. Immediately he bit the sound back hard, but it was too late. The moment he had spent himself he was on his feet and leaving, ignoring that I had not finished yet, something he never usually does.
I did not hold it against him.
Alone, I brought myself to release with the sound of my name still hovering in the air.
+++
I love being a doctor for several reasons: one of them being the fact that it brings with it an increased knowledge of the human anatomy.
On one of the special occasions Holmes would allow me to touch his most private areas, I lay between his legs, feeling him shift beneath me as I rubbed his prostate with my slick fingers. I knew I would reach orgasm any time now just by the incredible arousing soft moans that escaped his lips. His sounds grew desperate, and though he tried to restrain himself, he kept bucking against me over and over.
I felt his hand on my upper arm, urging me upwards, and I knew he desperately wanted me to take him, and I also knew that this was it, that if I would go on teasing him like this, twisting and rubbing and brushing, then I could break his defences, then I could make him beg.
I also knew what Holmes would think about this afterwards, what he would think about himself, and so as his hand squeezed my arm hard again, I gave in and positioned myself above him, entering him carefully. It took us both no more than a handful of thrusts to reach release.
+++
His black moods do not spare our shared nights.
I don’t know what triggers it, but sometimes he can’t stand to be touched. He still comes to me, and sometimes he tortures me by pleasuring me in various ways without allowing me as much as to run my fingers through his hair in return.
I can live with that, though, if only occasionally.
There are, however, also nights I dread. Sometimes he demands to be touched, but not caressed.
I want to worship every inch of his body, always proving to him how precious he is to me, but at times, he cannot seem to take it.
I always know immediately when it is a night like this, because everything in his posture is urgent, even in the dark he hardly looks into my face for longer than a moment, and he wastes no time to exchange niceties.
There is an unknown shyness in his gaze, and a plea, though in the darkness I can never be sure. All I can see is that he looks both strong and vulnerable at the same time, and I sense that it takes him much to ask this of me, and that I would crush him if I refused.
He doesn’t touch me then, he expects me to stroke myself hard on my own, fast, while he strips and positions himself on his knees and elbows in front of me.
He has no patience and often starts pressing against me before I’m ready. I would then reach for a convenient means to lubricate, his whole manner exuding disapproval though he knows there is no point arguing; I would never enter him without preparation, even if he asked me to.
As soon as he feels the tip of my cock touching his entrance, he pushes back roughly, and I hiss; this is too much, too fast, and if I say that, how must it feel for him?
He expects me to take him in hard, deep strokes, angrily pushing my hands away if I dare resting them anywhere but at his hip. He speeds up the pace if he feels I don’t push hard enough, and I can’t help thinking that he can't possibly enjoy this.
For his sake, I wish I liked it better, so it wouldn’t take me so long to finish.
He doesn’t make a sound through all of it. Sometimes I think he strokes himself while I take him; his movements as rough and ungentle as he demands mine to be. Other times he does not. I am quite unsure as to whether he reaches orgasm during these enconters and I wonder why he would seek them out.
Finally, the friction always pushes me over the edge, and as soon as I pull out, he takes up his dressing gown and leaves.
Fortunately, these encounters are sparse, because I don’t think I could bring myself to do this more often. I made it a rule to never give in to this after we have had an argument or I witnessed a case gone awry; I could not bear to be an instrument of his self-punishment.
My wish is to see him happy, I want him to know that - yes, that I’ve come to love him, and that I accept him, all aspects of his person; his greatness and his dark sides equally.
I desperately wish he could do so, too. I cannot know if anything I say or do could be enough to ensure that, but I do know I want to spend my life trying.
+++
On a cold December night, when rare snowflakes were chased through the streets by the howling wind, he came to me and immediately buried himself under my sheets. I know he has a hard time in Winter, his fingers especially are hardly ever warm.
I reached for his icy hands with the intention to press them against my chest until they were just as heated as my own skin.
"Come here," I said out loud and immediately froze. The silence was defeating, I did not even dare to breathe.
It had been nothing but a reflex; so thoughtless, stupid. What had I done?
I heard Holmes swallow. Then he slowly reached out and laid his hands in mine as I had requested.
+++
In the holiday season, something peculiar happened: my friend fell asleep in my bed. Not only was he next to me, but with his head actually nestling against my neck. His hair was damp and tickled me, and I could feel him breathing peacefully against my skin. Though my arm felt as if it would not forgive me to stay in this twisted position for much longer, I did not dare to move an inch. I wished I could stay awake until sunset, wished I could open my eyes to the sight of him curled up against me in the morning light.
When I woke up, he was already gone.
+++
I never know how to feel about Christmas. All the things I’d naturally love about it are only precious if one can share them.
As the date approached, I thought that maybe, this year, I could.
+++
Holmes and I stayed at Baker Street over Christmas. Mrs Hudson had decked out the living room, the smell of the holidays met your nose whenever you entered.
Holmes had taken up the habit to always make sure the fire in our chimney was always burning, warming us up when we retreated from the snowy street to our cosy home.
On Christmas Night, we had a delicious meal, a brandy afterwards, and then Holmes played for me on his violin.
I dozed off to the sound of the cracking fire and the festive tune of Bach.
When I woke again, the fire had almost burned down, and Holmes sat on the settee, arms tugged around his knees, sipping another brandy and eying me kindly.
"Welcome back, my dear doctor," he smiled.
"Oh, Holmes!" I exclaimed sleepily. "This was a delightful evening. Thank you very much for spending it with me."
I stretched and glanced at the clock.
"Oh dear, so late already. I will retire for the night."
"Very well, my friend. Have a good night," he answered.
I stopped at the door and turned back to see my friend watching the flames in the fireplace.
"Holmes," I said. I realised the pause that followed was too long, but my friend did not look away from the fire and stayed silent.
I tried again. "Holmes. Your room ought to be freezing tonight. You could... I mean. Just to sleep."
Even through the dizziness caused by the brandy and the nap I was aware I was making a fool of myself. Just as I was about the dismiss it, apologise even, Holmes spoke up.
"I will."
Just that.
"You..? Oh. Oh, right. I’ll... I’ll wait for you in my chambers then."
And so I do. I still can't quite believe it, but Sherlock Holmes is not known to lie.
As I rest in my bed waiting for him, memories of the passing year fill my head, as well as thoughts of the New Year soon to start.
I feel there is a high chance it is going to be the best year yet.