A Question of Proficiency
Title: A Question of Proficiency (1/1)
Author: jenlee1
Rating: NC-17
Setting: 2009 movieverse
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 3741
Warnings: Only for pure, unadulterated smut.
Summary: Falling in love, with all its attendant displays of affection, should not have been a thing of such difficulty.
A/N: Written for a prompt by tabby_stardust on our little fic meme at worththewounds, asking for first-time sex between virgin!Holmes and loving, patient, gentle Watson.
Falling in love, with all its attendant displays of affection, should not have been a thing of such difficulty.
Sherlock Holmes is a man accustomed to unparalleled prowess in all disciplines - the science of deduction, the art of clever wordplay, and even the far more primal arena of the boxing ring - and, justifiably, prides himself on his remarkable aptitude for everything he sets his mind to.
That this, of all things, should be the one matter in which his expertise is lacking seems unbearably unfair.
He’d been so careful; so very, very careful all these years to hide the true extent of his devotion to the doctor. The unexpected discovery that his affections were returned - a development so utterly improbable that Holmes would be tempted to call it miraculous, if he believed in such things - had been such a shock to his senses that he had yet to fully process the full array of wondrous possibilities that now lay before them. Standing stock still on the hearthrug on what had been a perfectly ordinary afternoon, flush with the aftermath of halting confessions and the slow, startled burn of desire, the joyful regard shining in Watson’s eyes had seemed to promise many more revelations to come.
And it was on precisely that point, of course, that there still remained a small matter of concern.
At the first touch of Watson’s hand at his waist, chaste though the intention may have been, he had stiffened. “Watson, I feel it only right to tell you - ” His face burned, struggling for words that refused to come. “I am not… experienced, as you are. I do not… that is, I have never - “
He had turned away in shame, allowing the rising flush along his cheekbones to convey what words could not.
If the doctor had been surprised at his admission, no trace of it showed on his kind features. He had folded Holmes into his arms at once, murmuring assurances and endearments, and the worst of his anxieties had dissolved - or so he believed, at the time - in the steady, familiar warmth of the embrace.
“Never fear,” Watson had whispered into his hair, and he shivers at the memory. “It matters not a whit to me - I want you, and only you. Tonight, once the dishes are cleared and Mrs. Hudson is safely abed, I will show you all the wonders that we can offer each other.”
******
Their supper that evening, Holmes is certain, is the longest in recent memory.
It is a curious fact that a state of nervous anticipation can make even the simplest and most efficient of events seem to drag on for ages, but an awareness of the problem often does nothing to ease its effects, and so it is today. He feels restless, clammy, as though he had recently partaken of his syringe, and Watson’s warm hand on his leg beneath the table does nothing to settle his nerves.
Quite the opposite, in fact, though not for the world would he have asked the doctor to remove it.
If Mrs. Hudson notices anything unusual in the interactions between her two lodgers - a chance brush of fingers as a plate is passed, gazes lingering on each other rather than her excellent meal - she declines to comment. The door closes on her good wishes for the night and silence reigns at last, footsteps fading on the stairs as Watson looks up with a quiet, secret smile and rises to throw the bolt behind her.
And now, alone in his bedroom with only the crackling of the fire to quiet his mind, he waits.
He trusts the doctor, of course, in this matter as in all things. He has wanted this, wanted Watson, for so long that he cannot recall when the stirrings first began, but there if there is anything in the world he fears, it is the unknown - that which cannot be anticipated and researched and thoroughly prepared for. And so he breathes deeply, flexes his hands and stares down at the intricate pattern formed by the threads on the coverlet.
And waits.
The soft rap on the door does little to calm his nerves, though the fear is tinged with a sense of wondering amazement as the latch clicks softly in the silence. He blinks once, twice; half-convinced that the entire interlude has been an invention of his beleaguered mind, and then the door swings open with a familiar creak and he has no more time to think of anything at all.
Watson approaches, clad only in shirtsleeves and trousers with the fine arch of his neck just visible above the collar, and he allows himself to stare.
His eyes take in every detail as Watson settles on the edge of the bed, as he slowly and deliberately unfastens each button with precise surgeon’s fingers, as his trousers slip easily over his hips and then, quite suddenly - or so it seems - he finds Watson close beside him once more, lean and bare and beautiful, and cannot truly comprehend that now, at last, what he has admired for so long from afar is his for the taking.
He swallows hard, unable to look away.
“Go on, my love,” says Watson, with a gratifying twinkle in his eye. He leans forward to brush the fingers of one hand, feather-light, over Holmes’ cheek. “I am here, and I am yours. Touch anything you like.”
He reaches out - tentatively at first, then with greater confidence - allowing his hands to roam over the finely muscled arms, the delicate collarbone and strong chest, cataloguing every dip and crevice of Watson’s body as he has always wished to, committing them to memory as surely as any other subject to which he had set his attention.
And as the doctor stretches over him at last, reaching with one hand to turn down the lamp as Holmes’ wandering fingers trace the lines of muscle in his back, he allows himself to be guided down to the mattress, surrendering to the gentle pressure of Watson’s body against his chest with only a quick, momentary flutter of anxiety.
“There you are, Holmes,” he murmurs, settling himself above with more grace than Holmes might have expected. “Lie back and relax. You need only to trust me, and I will guide you. We will do nothing, I give you my word - nothing that you do not wish to do.”
“Everything,” he whispers without thinking, and Watson’s eyebrows arch in surprise. Face flushed in sudden embarrassment- no doubt the doctor had thought him woefully inadequate as a partner from the start, without such a shameful display of naiveté - he nevertheless attempts to stammer out an explanation. “I wish to do everything, with you. Everything that two men of our persuasion may do.”
He casts his gaze downward, avoiding Watson’s eyes. “I have - some oil, in the bedside table.” The room is suddenly, unbearably hot and he closes his eyes, willing Watson to grasp his meaning without further elaboration. He has read of such things, heard tell of them in certain circles in the course of his work, and the idea of his beloved doctor pressing inside this most private of places is enough to provoke a disquieting degree of enthusiasm in certain regions of his anatomy. Distantly, however, he wonders how he is ever to complete the act if he cannot even bring himself to speak of it without blushing, still fully clothed and in control.
Above him Watson chuckles softly, but the hand that cups his face is filled with tenderness. “My dear Holmes,” he says at last, eyes shining with fond exasperation. “You can do nothing by halves, can you?” He leans down for a kiss without waiting for an answer - slow and gentle as his hand on Holmes’ shoulder, running carefully down his arm over the fabric of his shirt. “Nothing would make me happier, but I do not wish to cause you discomfort - not tonight, of all nights. We shall see.”
It is answer enough for now, and he contents himself with the unspoken promise behind the words.
He reaches at last for the buttons of his own shirt - fingers trembling, he notes with a muffled curse, now that it’s come to this - and Watson notices at once. “Let me,” he whispers, stilling Holmes’ unsteady hands with his own, and moves to see to the logistics of the matter himself. His fingers are as strong and sure on Holmes’ clothing as they had been on his own, and as he works, he does something extraordinary.
With every button that falls away, exposing a bit more of his body to the cooling nighttime air, Watson presses a soft kiss to his skin, following in the wake of his hands down chest and abdomen in a slow, inexorable progression to the waistband of his trousers. It comes as no great surprise, given his reputation, that Watson’s mouth is every bit as precise and dexterous as his fingers; indeed, he hardly notices as the garment is slipped free of his shoulders to leave him half-naked on the bed. The trousers are quick to follow, as Watson explores his neck and collarbone with a wonderfully sensitive tongue, and then - then, it seems that the worst is over at last, with the two of them lying skin to skin on the coverlet, free to explore each other’s bodies at their leisure.
He thinks, at first, that he would be content to lie here forever with his fingers playing over Watson’s flank and hip and the tender brush of lips and moustache against his forehead, marveling at the pleasure to be had from simply touching and being touched. His body, however, has other ideas; an accidental shift in position brings a strong, solid thigh in contact with his groin and his breathing stutters, fingers tightening on Watson’s shoulder.
“What is it?” asks Watson, concern flickering in his eyes until Holmes rubs against him again, more deliberately, and he grins. His hand moves, tracing gently down Holmes’ ribs and abdomen and then lower, and it’s all Holmes can do to keep still. Never, even in his most far-reaching theories and speculations had he imagined that another’s touch could feel like this, and in a matter of moments he finds himself gasping for breath as though he’s just run from here to Westminster, panting and pressing up into Watson’s waiting hand.
It feels good - almost too good, when he remembers at last through the haze of pleasure that this isn’t all he wants to do this evening. The strength of will required to pull away, to struggle to his knees and reach for the bedside table is nearly more than he can muster, but the glimmer of realization on Watson’s face makes it all worthwhile. He takes a breath to steady himself - relax, he thinks, hands shaking now for an entirely different reason - fumbles in the bedside drawer for the tiny bottle, pressing it into the doctor’s hand.
Watson hesitates, reluctant as ever to do anything that might cause him pain. “You are certain?”
Staring up into John Watson’s flushed face, his hair irresistibly mussed and his bare skin shining with perspiration in the firelight, he has never been more certain of anything in his life.
The preparations are much as he had expected; gentle hands position a pillow beneath his hips, taking care to settle him comfortably, and Watson kisses him one last time before moving to kneel between his legs. He warms the bottle, removing the stopper with practiced ease as Holmes watches through half-closed eyes and cannot help but wonder.
In all the years of their friendship, he has never pressed the doctor for details on the storied range and variety of his experiences. Regardless, he finds himself as unsurprised as he is relieved that Watson, famed as he is for his exploits on three separate continents, seems unfazed by the request and - more to the point, perhaps - knows precisely what to do.
He allows his eyes to drift closed as he waits, mind curiously blank, concentrating on the muted sounds of Watson’s movements below him on the bed. The mattress shifts as Watson leans closer and he tenses, prepared for the sudden touch of a finger in this most intimate region of his body, but the doctor’s hands settle instead on his thighs - rubbing and stroking with careful, steady pressure; tracing the lines of muscle up and down toward his groin and back again until the worst of the tension is gone. He takes a deep breath and releases it as one hand moves lower still, ghosting gently over the delicate skin between his legs.
The extended preparation is both highly pleasurable and just a bit insulting, and he finds himself torn between his eagerness to move forward and the desire for Watson’s hands to never, ever stop.
“Watson,” he murmurs at last as the former wish wins out, too drowsy and comfortable to inject as much impatience into his tone as he would like, “Contrary to the way I have behaved this evening, I am not a blushing bride. You may feel free to continue at any - oh.” He stops abruptly, at a loss for words as a single, well-slicked finger presses into him at last.
He focuses on his breathing - in and out, in and out - as the intruding digit probes deeper, fighting the instinctive clenching of muscle at the unfamiliar sensation. Watson is speaking, whispering loving nonsense that scarcely registers as the other hand caresses his knee, his hip, his rib cage and within moments, the worst has subsided. He relaxes incrementally as his mind catches up at last, cataloguing the details of this new and wondrous feeling until Watson crooks his finger just so, and something within him begins to fray at the seams. His body jerks, hips stuttering up off the mattress as a low, involuntary moan is wrenched from his throat.
His eyes fly open at that, startled and not a little alarmed at the sudden loss of control, but Watson smiles like he’s never heard anything more beautiful in all his life.
“That’s right, my dear,” he murmurs, leaning forward until his lips are just brushing Holmes’ ear. “Just like that.”
He repeats the motion, more slowly this time and Holmes’ breath catches in his chest, fingers curling themselves involuntarily into the pillowcase at his head. “Watson, what on earth - ”
“Shhh.” A second finger joins the first, and Watson’s other hand drifts up once more to caress his leg as he tenses. “Stop thinking. Just relax, and let me do the work.”
Stop thinking has always been a command he finds nearly impossible to obey regardless of his wishes, but he finds that he has little choice in the matter as Watson continues his careful ministrations, easing a third finger inside with a final murmured reassurance and a soft kiss to the skin of his inner thigh. Watson pauses then, waits for him to breathe and seems on the verge of asking, again, whether he still wants to continue when the gentle fingers give a slow, cautious half-twist inside their narrow passage and Holmes, biting back a cry at the resulting flood of sensation, finds that he cannot wait another second.
“Now,” he whispers, legs trembling, too nearly undone to be ashamed at the note of pleading that creeps into his voice. “Now, Watson - please. For God’s sake, do it now.”
The uncomfortable tightness, for a moment, is nearly too much to bear but it doesn’t matter because Watson’s fingers are sliding out as slowly and carefully as they entered, and then there is Watson, nudging firmly at his entrance and pressing inside. The sensation is indescribable, a gentle sliding and stretching over the dim, muted burn of his body adjusting - warm and heavy, just this side of painful and he forces a breath through his nose, willing himself once again to relax.
It’s working, slowly but surely and his eyes fall closed as he shifts on the bed, blissfully unaware of the soft, wordless sounds escaping his throat until he feels Watson’s fingers carding through his hair.
“All right?”
He can hear the concern, the fear in Watson’s voice and he wants to laugh, to tell Watson that he is not all right in the slightest because he has never been better in all his life, but he is utterly incapable of speech. Incapable of opening his eyes or even nodding, or doing anything at all short of reaching blindly for the doctor’s face, hovering anxiously somewhere above, and pulling him down for a kiss. Watson’s mouth slides across his own, clumsy and panting and entirely lacking in grace or focus, but the intention is clear enough and he feels the doctor relax at last.
All right, indeed.
Watson shifts against him and begins to move - achingly slow, withdrawing inch by inch only to slide forward again with infinite care - and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before; fullness and friction and quivering muscles straining to relax, wonderful and maddening all at once. He grunts in ecstasy and frustration and his hands are on Watson’s arms, his shoulders, his chest; sliding mindlessly down his rib cage to grasp him by the hips as if to control their motion.
“Tell me, Holmes,” the doctor breathes, and it registers - dimly - that Watson’s voice is every bit as unsteady as his own. “Tell me what you want.”
And he would - he would, if only he knew. He shakes his head mutely, eyes tightly shut, scarcely able to breathe for the delicious pressure of Watson moving inside him. “I don’t - ” He gasps, words tumbling out of reach as Watson pulls almost all the way out, only to sink deeper still on the following stroke. “John, I can’t - ”
There is a moment of something akin to panic as he squirms, hips shifting on the mattress of their own accord. The pressure is at once overwhelming - too much, too much - and not nearly enough; his fingers twist in the bedsheets in an agony of conflicting sensations, uncertain whether to push forward or pull back and Watson, bless him, understands.
The angle of the next thrust is different - steeper, somehow; a bit longer and just as slow, and - there. His entire body spasms, muscles clenching erratically around Watson as his neck arches back on the pillow, and he cannot stifle the groan that slips unnoticed past his lips. For an instant, the world around them grinds to a shuddering halt as his focus narrows to a single point of contact somewhere deep inside, until he can scarcely feel Watson’s body pressed against his or the low murmur of approval rumbling in the doctor's chest.
This - he thinks distantly in the corner of his mind that still clings to conscious thought - is everything he had ever hoped for, and far more than he deserves. If Providence sees fit someday to exact its revenge for their crime, for their audacity in reaching out for the happiness so freely offered, he welcomes it gladly. He’s seen enough of the world to understand the capricious ways of fate, that everything golden and perfect has a price, but this - this is worth anything he has to give.
And in truth, he and his doctor have become accustomed to defying the odds.
The moment twists and stretches, precious seconds blending into one another as the pulsing ache in his groin and the tingling in his legs threaten to overwhelm him entirely and finally, finally, Watson’s hand slides between them to curl around his straining erection; warm, calloused palm and fingers still slick with oil, and something inside him gives way at last - a white-hot point of pleasure that breaks like a wave at the base of his spine. His body shudders, legs clamped tight around Watson’s waist as the doctor’s movements grow faster and more erratic as well and it’s too much for them both, as Watson jerks and shivers above him before stilling completely, muffling his cry in Holmes’ shoulder as his body relaxes at last.
What follows is a moment, perhaps two, of the most perfect stillness Holmes has ever known.
He is only dimly aware of Watson slipping free, as something from a dream - of Watson’s arms encircling his waist and shoulders to draw him closer and Watson’s lips pressing soft, gentle kisses along his temple and he allows it as he has never allowed such things before; utterly spent, still trembling with the after effects of his release.
And in fact, the experience of being cradled in the doctor’s embrace is far from unpleasant. He can see no compelling reason to move - indeed, he can scarcely muster the will to think, or speak, or open his eyes - and so he burrows closer still to bury his face in the crook of Watson’s neck. He smells faintly of soap and tobacco and good, clean sweat and after a moment’s hesitation, he presses a tentative, open-mouthed kiss against the skin there.
He has no need to look up to feel Watson’s answering smile.
“How do you feel, my dear?” whispers the doctor, worry breaking through the drowsy fog of contentment like a half-forgotten thorn, niggling at a tender bit of skin. “Any discomfort? Any pain?”
The question is not entirely unexpected and he shifts gingerly against Watson’s chest, wondering at the comfortable lassitude dragging at his limbs and the slow, steady heartbeat against his cheek.
“I feel that our ‘experiment’, as it were, has been a highly successful one - so much so that I would be delighted to repeat it at the first available opportunity. Particularly as I very much suspect that this, like so many things, is a skill that can only be improved with practice.” The arms around him tighten affectionately - and how, he wonders, has he ever managed to sleep without them? - as he adds, slyly, “Fortunately, I have the benefit of an excellent teacher. Something of an expert in these matters, from what I understand - which, as you know, makes all the difference in the world.”
He surrenders to the heavy pull of slumber with Watson’s soft chuckle echoing in his ears, as warm and safe and loved as he has ever been, and resolves to give the matter his full attention once again come morning.
Sherlock Holmes, after all, is nothing if not a diligent pupil.